


a drink and good company

by mckrose40



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Tommy Shelby Has Issues, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 114,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mckrose40/pseuds/mckrose40
Summary: While waiting on your uncle to retrieve something for him from the back of the shop, he turned his attention to you and said some pretty words that left you flushed before inviting you to a pub. The Garrison, he had called it, promising a drink and good company.
Relationships: Alfie Solomons/Original Female Character(s), Alfie Solomons/Reader, John Shelby/Original Female Character(s) (brief), John Shelby/Reader (brief), Tommy Shelby/Grace Burgess (mentioned), Tommy Shelby/May Carleton (mentioned), Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader
Comments: 130
Kudos: 175





	1. act i. i can see your demons

**Author's Note:**

> I've only recently discovered Peaky Blinders, and subsequently discovered that I am absolute Tommy Shelby trash.
> 
> This was written in the second-person, to act as reader insert of sorts, but it does follow a named character.
> 
> Unedited and unashamed.

Contrary to popular belief, it was John that introduced you to the Shelby family, not Ada. (Sure, you were fast friends with the lone Shelby sister, but without John to introduce you, you likely never would have met Ada).

It wasn’t long after he returned home from the war, chasing his demons away with liquor and whores, that he stumbled upon you while on business one day. While waiting on your uncle to retrieve something for him from the back of the shop, he turned his attention to you and said some pretty words that left you flushed before inviting you to a pub. The Garrison, he had called it, promising a drink and good company.

You didn’t get the chance to respond to his invitation. Your uncle returned from the back with a package in hand, and then John was gone.

That evening, you had fully intended to stay in, curled up on the armchair by the fire with a book that you had read far too many times, but your curiosity got the best of you. Quietly, so as to not wake your uncle and cousins, you exchanged your nightgown for one of your less modest dresses and tiptoed down the hall and out the front door, locking it behind you.

The Garrison itself wasn’t hard to find, but the man who had whispered pretty words in your ear earlier that day certainly was. You could feel the eyes of some of the pub’s patrons on you as you approached the bar, but you kept your head held high and sat down, ordering yourself a drink while scanning the room for John.

It was nearly an hour later (and right before you were about to give up on the promised drink and good company) that a group of men strode through the doors, and the jovial atmosphere in the room visibly changed. Some of the men sat at tables and at the bar nodded respectfully towards the newcomers, while others avoided their gaze completely, focusing on the drinks in their hands.

You inspected the newcomers, ignoring the raised brows of the barkeep as you did, and smiled when you found John among the group.

He returned the smile and playfully punched one of the other men on the shoulder. “See, Arthur. Told you she’d show up.”

He was quick to approach you then, welcoming you with a smile and repeating what he had told the other man - “I knew you’d show up,” he said with a smile that was contagious - and then he was ushering you towards a side room and introducing you to the other men (his brothers, no less) as George Kingsley’s niece.

His brothers - Arthur and Thomas - were watching the spectacle with amusement and disinterest respectively. And then, you spoke, greeting the brothers and introducing yourself - “It’s nice to meet you all. I don’t often get to meet my uncle’s business partners. It was sheer happenstance that I was in the shop when John stopped by today” - and suddenly Arthur’s amusement grew tenfold and Thomas’s disinterest turned into unadulterated interest.

“You’re American?” John asked, looking as if that fact was the most shocking secret he had ever heard.

You blinked at him, expression entirely blank as you answered, “You’d have known if you gave me a moment to speak this afternoon, but you kept prattling on about drinks and good company. I figured you’d learn soon enough if I showed up tonight.” Arthur burst into peals of laughter then as John flushed red, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’m here now, and I expect that promised drink and good company.”

The other brother, Thomas, spoke for the first time then. “You heard the lady, John. She was promised a drink and good company. You should follow through on that promise.”

You spent that night and almost every subsequent night for nearly three months with the Shelby brothers and occasionally some others (on the fourth evening, Ada had joined them against their wishes, and you and she became fast friends) enjoying drinks and good company. Some nights it would be all four adult Shelby siblings at the Garrison with you. Other nights it would be just you, John, and Arthur. Occasionally, you only had Ada for company (which was perfectly fine). 

But then one night, it wasn’t John or Ada taking the seat at the bar next to you. You eyes widened in surprise when you found Thomas Shelby sitting beside you, ordering whiskey for the two of you before placing a fresh cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

“That’s not a very healthy habit, you know,” you remarked offhandedly.

“Don’t remember askin’ you,” he retorted, blowing smoke before putting the glass of whiskey to his lips.

“You didn’t, but you know what they say about Americans. We’re incredibly rude and like to talk just to hear ourselves.” 

That made his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile. “I won’t argue with that.” You snorted, taking a sip from your glass before turning in your seat to face him. “John’s not gonna make it tonight. He’s held up with some business.”

He looked at you then - really _looked_ at you - and suddenly you felt naked beneath his cold gaze. To say that Thomas Shelby was an attractive man was an understatement, and you felt yourself grow flushed under his gaze. At least here, at the Garrison, you could blame the alcohol for your flushed cheeks. “S’okay,” you said softly, averting your gaze. Focusing on the amber liquid in your glass was by far safer than getting lost in Thomas Shelby’s haunting eyes. You lifted your glass to him and shrugged. “I’m here for a drink and good company. Doesn’t necessarily need to be John’s company.”

He didn’t respond to you right away, and, just as it did that first night you came to the Garrison, curiosity got the best of you. You lifted your gaze from your glass and chanced a look at him, surprised to find him staring down at you, studying you, with a pensive expression on his face. 

“What is it?”

“Let’s get you home, hm? It’s late.” 

That caught you off guard, and you sat gaping at him. “Absolutely not. I came here for a drink and good company, and I’m not leaving until I get that.”

“You’ve already had your drink,” he said, nodding towards your now empty glass. “That’s the best I can do. Come on.” He stands and gathers his coat and yours, then walks through the doors of the pub as if he just expects you to obediently follow.

You huffed, indignant, but followed him out. He did have your coat, after all, and without the small key tucked into the front pocket there was no hope of you getting back into your uncle’s flat without waking everyone.

You approached him with heavy steps, pouting, and snatched your coat from him. “And the English call Americans rude,” you bit out as you shrugged your coat on to protect you from the chill of the nighttime air. “You could have just told me if you didn’t want me here.”

Again, he ignored you, choosing to begin the walk towards your uncle's flat. You swallowed the question of how he knew what direction you lived in, knowing that he would likely just continue to ignore you, and hustled to catch up with him. You struggled to keep up with him, your short strides no match for his longer ones.

You walked in silence for a while after that, and he only spoke up after you were only blocks from your destination. “How long have you lived in Birmingham?”

You shrugged, fighting back the instinctive reaction of surprise. In the past months, Thomas Shelby has never taken an interest in you beyond the initial interest he showed the night you met. “If we’re being technical, I was born here. Ma wanted out though, so we immigrated to America when I was hardly more than a newborn. Then Ma died in the summer of sixteen, so my father, my brother, and I came back.”

He nodded, though you could just barely make out the action in the dark of the night. You waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, you continued, “When we left America, the Americans hadn’t joined the war yet, but once we got here my father and brother both enlisted and shipped out to France. My father died on the front lines after five months. My brother made it out of France, but his demons made him put a bullet in his head not long after he got home. My uncle took me in after that, and I’ve been living with his family ever since.” You turned to your companion, a sad smile on your face. “But you already knew that bit, didn’t you.”

“Yes,” was his curt reply. 

“I s’pose it’s only fair,” you replied, “since I’ve learned quite a bit about you as well, Thomas Shelby.”

He stopped walking then, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist to stop you from walking further. “And what you learned didn’t scare you off yet?” 

The genuine curiosity in his voice made you tilt your head in confusion. “Why would it? The unknown is far more terrifying if you ask me. And you, Thomas, are far less of an unknown than you think you are.”

“There’s plenty that you don’t know about me,” he countered, drawing closer to you and looking down at you with those haunting eyes.

“Is there?” You step closer, buzzing with restless energy from the heat of his hand on the bare skin of your wrist. “I’m far more observant than most people give me credit for. You’re an ambitious man, but you value your family more than anything - you draw your strength from them. You’re kind, but you hide your kindness behind a facade of calm intimidation.” He stands in quiet contemplation as you take a final step towards him, leaving very little space between the two of you, and hesitantly draw your hand up to his face, feeling the muscles of his jaw tense before finally relaxing under your touch. Your eyes search his face, your expression relaxing into one of understanding. “And I think you’re battling the same demons that my brother had to battle. The only difference between the two of you is that you’re...coping. He couldn’t find a way to cope with what happened to him in France, and I lost him because of it. Don’t let your demons win, too, Thomas,” you whispered, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch as his fingers danced over your hairline, brushing your hair back.

He stared at your for another moment then, gauging your reactions as his touch grazed over your skin. Once he got the reaction he wanted, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before gently gripping your chin between his fingers and pressing his lips to yours, first featherlight and then more urgent.

You’re not sure how long you stood in the street, body melded to Thomas Shelby’s, but once you finally separated, the moon was high above you, illuminating the city below it.

“Let’s get you home, hm?” The repeated suggestion from earlier in the night made you laugh, and the resulting sight of Thomas smiling softly at you nearly took your breath away. “Don’t want to give your uncle the wrong impression, do we?” He held his arm out for you, and after laughing once more - your heart feeling lighter than it had in years - you looped your arm through his and continued on the path to your uncle’s home.

Thomas left you with a final, searing kiss at your uncle’s door that night. Once he was sure you were able to get into the flat without any problem, he turned to begin his walk back to the Shelby residence.

“Thank you for the drink and good company, Thomas Shelby,” you called after him, lips curled upwards into a satisfied grin as he turned back for one final look at you before disappearing around the corner.

Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't John that you found yourself slowly falling in love with after spending time with the Shelby family. (The truth was, you found that you loved the entire Shelby family as if they were your own, but it was Thomas Shelby, haunting eyes and inner demons included, that you found yourself falling in love with).


	2. act ii. you broke me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, sweet John. He tried to pick up the broken piece of your heart, but some of the pieces had been shattered beyond repair the more you compared him to Thomas.

You noticed a subtle shift in Thomas after that night he first kissed you in the middle of a dimly lit street.

Instead of distancing himself from you on the nights that he showed up at the Garrison with his brothers, he often took the seat next to you, sharing looks with you when Arthur said something outrageous or when John made a pass at you. He smiled more freely around you (though to say that he didn’t smile often was an understatement), and when he did, his smiles took your breath away. He opened up more, slowly but surely letting you into his inner circle, writing your name on his heart among those that he trusted the most. He still didn’t want you coming around the betting house, but he didn’t complain or give you cold stares when you came around the Shelby flat to meet with Ada or to have tea with Polly. He even started coming by your uncle's shop himself rather than sending John on the days he knew you’d be there, chatting with you about nothing and everything while he waited for you uncle to return from the back office.

There was also, of course, the stolen moments when it was just you and Thomas. After that first night, it didn’t take long for him to find his way between your thighs. 

The first time, you had been bold enough to invite him in after he walked you home from the Garrison. Your uncle had business in London that week, and he had taken your young cousins with him, leaving you on your own. You certainly weren’t going to pass up that opportunity, and based on his eager kisses in response to your invitation, Thomas wasn’t going to either. 

He took his time with you, savoring each kiss and touch and taste. In return, you traced his scars, fingers dancing over his skin and lips lightly brushing against each perfect imperfection as you went.

And it was wonderfully glorious.

The seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to hours. By the time he was finally finished with you and your newfound passion for exploration, for mapping each and every inch of his skin had been sated, the early morning light of dawn was beginning to peek through your bedroom window, and exhaustion was tugging your eyelids closed.

He was already gone when you woke up hours later, with the sun high in the sky, but his intoxicating scent was still on the pillow he had used, and that was good enough for you.

The subsequent times Thomas had you hadn’t been nearly as...tender.

You both had trouble keeping your hands off of each other, so it unfailingly led to half-clothed rendezvous in the shadows against the Garrison, quickies in his room at the Shelby’s flat, his hand covering your mouth to muffle your cries of pleasure as he moved above you, and even a few drunken fucks in the private parlour at the Garrison once the other patrons had filed out for the night and all that remained was Harry, quietly cleaning the bar without so much as a word to the two stragglers.

It was under the cover of the night, on the evenings when you were too tired or too drunk to make the walk back to your uncle’s home that you would curl up in bed with Thomas, holding each other; you kept his demons at bay, and he provided you with a sense of warmth, of home that you hadn’t had since your mother passed away and both your brother and father followed her into an early grave. On those nights, he told you about his mother, how he missed her smile and the way she used to comfort him after a nightmare. (He also told you about how it was getting harder and harder to remember what she looked like with each passing day, but he’d never forget her smile). He told you about France, about the demons that you had seen in him shortly after meeting him, and how we almost ended up like your brother on more than one occasion, but it was his family that kept him going. (If he was going to be sent to an early grave, it wouldn’t be by his own hand, he told you). 

In return, you told him about America and the small home your family lived in just north of Chicago. (You told him how your mother had died in that small home, face sunken and sallow with glassy eyes). You told him about your brother and the way Ben always managed to chase your ghosts away when they became overwhelming. (You told him that Ben was one of those ghosts now, and you weren’t sure you would ever want to chase him away).

Tearing down the walls around Thomas Shelby brick by brick very quickly became your favorite hobby, and you were more than glad to share pieces of yourself with him in order to do it.

The others undoubtedly knew that something was going on between you and the head of their family, but no one ever verbalized any initial acknowledgement. Instead, the acknowledgement of your relationship with Thomas came from their actions. It was John’s wistful smile when he saw you and his older brother sat together at the bar at the Garrison, reminding you that once upon a time, it had been John that sat beside you each night. It was Arthur’s amused expression when Thomas would grab your hand, intent on pulling you away from the others to have his way with you. It was Pol’s raised brow when her nephew smiled at you, looking more and more like the man that Thomas was before he left that part of him in France. It was the way that Ada pretended to be annoyed with her brother for stealing her friend away from her, while being (not so) secretly pleased about your relationship, thinking that you would be able to calm her brother’s temper when it came to her new husband. It was even little Finn, averting his eyes and blushing furiously each time he saw Thomas pull you onto his lap for a kiss during your visits after a long day of work, before Thomas would usher Finn to bed and the two of you would walk to the Garrison for that drink and good company. 

It was easy, being with Thomas, until suddenly it wasn’t. 

It was Polly who whispered in your ear about the blond haired, green-eyed barmaid with a voice that had patrons of the Garrison falling in love with her after just one song.

You forced down the rising jealousy and held your head high as you walked into the Garrison that night. You easily found John and Arthur, seated at the usual table, but Thomas was nowhere to be found. You sat down, quickly downed the drink that John pushed across the table to you, and scanned the crowd for the missing Shelby brother. 

The jealousy boiled over when you finally found him, seated at the bar, leaning towards the barmaid Polly had told you about with a smile on his face. You frowned and felt bile rising in your throat as you realized that it was the same smile that he typically reserved for you.

A hand on yours pulled your attention back to the two men in front of you, and your gaze fell on John, his expression apologetic. You stood abruptly, garnering the attention of some of the other patrons in the pub, but Thomas’s attention remained firmly on the barmaid. “I’m leaving,” you announce to John and Arthur with a sad smile, eyes still firmly trained on Thomas’s back. “I’m afraid I won’t be very good company tonight.”

Arthur dropped his gaze to the table, twisting his glass in his hand but saying nothing. John stood, grabbing his coat. “I’ll walk you home.”

It was a quiet walk, your arms wrapped around you, grounding you as if it could prevent your from returning to the Garrison and pull the barmaid’s pretty blond hair out. John was just as silent beside you, hands in his pockets and gaze cast downwards towards the ground.

Eventually, the hurt you felt building inside of you forced you to come to a stop in the middle of the street. “Who is she?” Your voice was barely louder than a whisper, but John, so in tune to you since the day you met, heard you and came to a halt only a few feet in front of you.

“Her name is Grace.” 

“Is he fucking her?”

He didn’t even turn around to look you in the eye as he answered, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“John, look me in the fucking eyes and tell me the truth.” At your sides, your hands trembled and you had to clench them into fists. “Fucking tell me the truth.”

Finally, he turned to you, doing as you asked and looking you directly in the eyes. “Probably.” He started to pace then, explaining, “He took her to the races with him. Made her his secretary, too.” 

You froze then, tears pricking at your eyes and your lip beginning to tremble. Thomas never took you to the races, claimed that he didn’t go to the races for pleasure. It was business for him, and he didn’t want you anywhere near the business. That was why he never allowed you to go to his office in the betting house. And now this barmaid...this woman, she’s already been allowed to see a side of Thomas that he refused to share with you. A choking sob escaped from you as you furiously swiped away the stray tears that began tracking down your cheeks.

John stopped his pacing then, gathering you in his arms as more sobs wracked your body. “Come ‘ere.” He rubbed soothing circles across your back, whispering comforting words in your ear.

John, sweet John. He had been hurt by Thomas, too. Recently even. His brother had manipulated the whore to prove a point to John, without any thought to how it would hurt him. 

You pulled away from his embrace and wiped your nose on your coat sleeve, uncaring that it was possibly the least attractive thing you had done that entire night. But John paid no mind. Instead, he continued whispering his comforting words, doing his best to distract you from the fact that it was very likely, in that exact moment, that Thomas was fucking his blond haired, green-eyed barmaid.

And that’s when you decided to drown in your hurt and your anger.

It was at the door of your uncle’s flat that you allowed the hurt and the anger to speak for you, to control your actions for the remainder of the night. It was the hurt and the anger that had you inviting John inside and leading him to your room. It was the hurt and the anger that had you pressing your lips to his and tugging his clothes off as he stripped you down to nothing but your thin shift. It was the hurt and the anger that had you pressed beneath him, thinking of how his body fit against yours differently than Thomas’s. It was the hurt and the anger that had you straining to find the right angle, the angle that Thomas had perfected, the angle that drove you absolutely mad. It was the hurt and the anger that had you biting your lip to prevent you from calling out the wrong man’s name as you tumbled over that sinful yet heavenly edge just before John spent himself on your stomach. It was the hurt and the anger that had you on the edge of tears as John dressed himself and pressed one final kiss to your forehead, apologizing for a hurt that he didn’t cause before silently slipping out of your room. It was the hurt and the anger that had you hating yourself, feeling immeasurable guilt for using John the way that you had.

John, sweet John. He tried to pick up the broken piece of your heart, but some of the pieces had been shattered beyond repair the more you compared him to Thomas.

But, regardless of how you had gotten there, John kept his promise he’d made you the day you first met him - he provided you with a drink and good company. It’s just too bad it wasn’t enough to stop your heart from breaking.


	3. act iii. bite my tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like time slowed when you entered the Garrison to see Thomas at the bar with the blond barmaid, smiling at her with that smile that he used to reserve for only you, and you couldn’t help but watch the scene before you unfold with anticipation, with a small sliver of hope that Polly would slap the smug grin off of his face.

John’s wedding shortly after you invited him in had come as a surprise to you. (It was a surprise to him, too, you later learned). It wasn’t so long ago that Thomas had denied his wishes to marry Lizzie. (It wasn’t so long ago that you had been naked beneath him as tears of guilt clouded your eyes).

You still had yet to speak to Thomas following that night, but it was John’s wedding; and regardless of Thomas’s actions, you had so seamlessly integrated yourself into the Shelby family. You belonged at that wedding, celebrating with the family that was slowly becoming your own. Polly had said as much when she invited you.

You arrived arm in arm with Ada, walking slowly to accommodate her slow waddle, and Polly had her arm looped through Ada’s other arm. As you drew closer, you could feel Ada flexing and unflexing her fingers on your arm and Polly’s concerned gaze shifting to you. Arthur acknowledged you with a nod and greeting smile, eyes flickering over to gauge Thomas’s reaction at your arrival.

Thomas simply exchanged brief words with Ada - talking about a truce and her husband, all of which was news to you, but you figured that’s what happens when you avoid everyone in the Shelby family like the plague for nearly a week - as you came to a stop next to him, but he largely ignored your presence altogether, his eyes trained on the couple of the hour as the ceremony began.

And as quickly as it had began, it was over. John and his new wife - Esme, you later learned - exchanged a kiss and the crowd was cheering and applauding and you couldn’t help your gaze from sliding over Thomas, a prick of longing and hurt echoing deep within your chest.

His haunting eyes found yours then, the first time he’d acknowledged you since before that night in the Garrison, and you could feel your resolve, your courage crumbling at your feet like the shattered pieces of your heart. You spun on your heel then, unable to face him without at least a couple drinks in your system.

You managed to avoid Thomas during most of the celebration that followed the ceremony, drowning your feelings in drinks and good company courtesy of the eldest Shelby brother, but he was always on the edge of your vision and it was driving you mad. After ensuring that Ada was in good hands, finally enjoying herself, you made your way away from the crowd, leaning against one of the Lee family’s many vardos encircling the celebration. You closed your eyes and took deep breaths, trying to ignore the traitorous thoughts quickly bubbling to the surface now that there was nothing to distract you from them.

You felt the vardo shift slightly as someone leaned against it next to you. Without opening your eyes, you knew who it was. You could smell his familiar scent of cigarette smoke and gunpowder as he approached you. “What do you want, Thomas?” You opened your eyes then, taking in his appearance. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the whiskey he had been drinking all night, his lips slightly puckered as he lit the cigarette that was held between them, and his eyes still as haunting as they were that first night he walked you home.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze flickering from the night sky, to you, back and forth before they settled on the sky above you. Finally, after exhaling a cloud of smoke, his eyes found yours and he spoke softly, “You look good.” He returned his attention to the sky, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Haven’t seen you at the Garrison lately.”

You shrugged, hoping the gesture came off as merely disinterested and not hopeless, showing him how absolutely broken you felt. “Figured you’d prefer it that way,” you replied. You just wished that he would leave you alone. You just didn’t have it in you to have this conversation with him now. “Is there something I can help you with, Thomas?”

“You can tell me where you’ve been all week. You haven’t been to the Garrison, you haven’t come around for tea with Pol, and you haven’t been at the shop.”

You scoffed, turning to face him fully then. He looked down at you, an unspoken challenge etched into his expression, and the anger that was beginning to boil within you combined with the copious amounts of liquor you’d gratefully consumed earlier had you acting without thought. You reached up and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, tossing it to the ground before stamping it out. “I fucking hate smoking.” 

He looked at you, silent fury in his eyes, as he pulled another cigarette out of his case and lit it, eyes never leaving yours as he did so. When you attempted to pull the fresh cigarette from his mouth, he caught your wrist, pining it above you on the vardo. “Stop fucking around, Nora,” he hissed.

“Fuck you, Tommy.”

That caught him off guard, and he loosened his grip on your wrist just enough for you to pull away from him. His eyes scanned your face, searching for an explanation, a reason, something, anything - you never called him Tommy in the months, almost a year now, since you first met the Shelby family. He’d always been Thomas, your Thomas, but he wasn’t yours anymore, was he? Maybe he never was.

“What’s your fuckin’ problem? You can’t just disappear for a week and expect me to just let it go.”

“Can’t I, though? I don’t belong to you, Tommy.”

“Don’t you?”

You shook your head, fighting back the angry tears that were starting to sting your eyes. “It works both ways. I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me.” You turn away, needing to calm yourself down before you say something that angers him too much. Regardless of how you felt, he was still your uncle’s business partner. “You made that abundantly clear at the Garrison when you didn’t even acknowledge me.”

“That’s what this is about? Because I didn’t acknowledge you?” He reached out to grip your arm, gently tugging you back towards the party. “Stop acting like a child and come back to the party. I’ll get you a drink and you can dance with Ada and…”

You tore away from his grip, the action so abrupt it caused him to turn towards you again. “Stop acting like you fucking care! I’m not fucking stupid, Tommy. I saw you with her that night!”

He sighed, dragging his hand across his face, his exhaustion showing more clearly then. You had to stop yourself from reaching to him, from asking if he’s been sleeping, from chasing his demons away.

You stood staring at each other for a long moment, neither willing to look away or back down from the challenge electrifying the air between you.

“You wanna do this here? Have it out, yeah?” He lifted his chin slightly, looking down his nose at you. “Then by all means, have it out. Say your piece.” He swept his arm in front of his, as if gesturing that you had the floor to speak.

Your fingers drew inward, nails slightly scraping against your palms as your hands clenched into fists at your side. Your chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell, your breathing growing more labored the more your anger - the anger that you’d been drowning in avoidance and whiskey for the past week - grew.

And then the dam broke, and all the anger came rushing out in a single statement. “You fucked the barmaid!”

“And you fucked my brother!”

The speed of his response struck you like a slap to the face. It was almost like he’d been waiting for the right time to call you out on the actions that had you feeling so much goddamn guilt for the past week.

“You’re not even going to deny it?” you asked, incredulous.

“Are you?” he spat back. “How was it, Nora? Did fucking John make you feel good? Or were you imagining that it was me fucking you the entire time?” He stepped closer again, capturing your chin in his hand and forcing you to meet his gaze. “Was it my name on your lips while he was inside you?”

You held his gaze, refusing to be cowed. “Fuck you, Thomas Shelby.”

And then, just like the dam that was containing your anger broke, the dam that had been responsible for containing the longing, the lust, the need to feel this man inside of you broke, too. 

His lips were rough on yours, his hands rushed as they worked to pull your dress up around your hips, your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt until you had his cock gripped firmly in your hand, and bodies buzzing as he finally pushed inside of you.

Against the side of the vardo wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d ever fucked you, but it certainly wasn’t the least comfortable either. The sounds of the music and laughing and fireworks drowned out any noises you made. He muffed his groans of pleasure in the crook of your neck, pressing kisses to the soft skin over your collarbone - occasionally suckling on the skin, occasionally biting when you pulled on his hair too roughly.

Arthur rounded the corner, stumbling from the whiskey and seemingly oblivious to yours and Thomas’s presence. It wasn’t until he had pulled his cock out and was in the middle of pissing that he finally noticed Tommy had you pinned between him and the vardo, rutting against you, his large hand tangled in your hair and pulling your head back to more fully expose your neck to him. It probably would have been far less mortifying if you hadn’t made direct eye contact with Arthur as Thomas hit just the right spot within you, making you moan loudly.

“Shit,” Arthur stammered, earning Thomas’s attention. His thrusts slowed only momentarily before returning to their usual pace. “Apologies! Ignore me,” Arthur called out, turning his back to you and his brother as he made his way back to the party. “Enjoy yourselves.” 

You could hear the amusement in Arthur’s voice, and it made you snort with laughter before Thomas hit that spot again, making you vision swim as you rushed closer and closer to that glorious edge.

You cried his name like you had wanted to that night with John, the sound muffled in his shoulder, and Thomas followed over the edge shortly after.

Noticeably, there was no name falling from his lips.

Breathless and disheveled, Thomas helped you fix your dress and clean up your sticky thighs before sorting himself. “You should go back to the party,” he told you, lighting his third cigarette since finding you behind that vardo.

“That’s it? We’re not even gonna discuss this?”

He glanced at you through the puff of smoke. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“The fuck there isn’t!” you fumed. “There’s plenty to discuss, Thomas! But I’ll make it easy for you.” You squared your shoulders and prepared yourself to ask a question that you may not like the answer to. “Did you feel even an ounce of guilt while you fucked her? Did you think of me even once?” He didn’t answer, choosing to focus on the landscape in front of him as he inhaled deeply. Feeling bold for the second time that night, you gripped his face in your hands and forced him to look at you. “Because I felt suffocated by the guilt that I felt that night. Because as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stop thinking about how different John was from you, how fucking wrong it felt to have him inside of me instead of you. Because I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me, but I only ended up hurting myself even more. So tell me the fucking truth for once in your fucking life, Thomas.”

“No.” His answer was short, clipped, but it was enough to send you reeling, the happy mood of the evening suffocating you more than your guilt ever could have.

You turned on your heel, leaving him alone behind the vardo to return to the party with the others. No one questioned your newfound unquenchable thirst or your newfound desire to dance with anyone who was willing, but you could tell that they knew.

Ada danced and drank and indulged you, helping you regain the happy facade that you’d gotten so skilled at maintaining in the past week. Polly watched you with contemplative eyes from the edge of the crowd, eyeing Thomas warily as he sat down, smiling and drinking and enjoying the party as if he hadn’t just broken your heart for the second time in as many weeks.

And then Thomas was trying to corral Ada, and then Ada went into labor, and then baby Karl made his way into the world, and then Freddie arrived, and then Freddie was arrested, and then Ada was screaming and crying for her husband, and Polly was storming from the flat.

Your head was swimming - from the alcohol or the flood of battling emotions, you weren’t quite sure - but you followed Polly, silently making sure she didn’t do anything stupid.

But your muddled brain forgot to make sure that you didn’t do anything stupid.

It was like time slowed when you entered the Garrison to see Thomas at the bar with the blond barmaid, smiling at her with that smile that he used to reserve for only you, and you couldn’t help but watch the scene before you unfold with anticipation, with a small sliver of hope that Polly would slap the smug grin off of his face.

But John and Arthur swiftly ensured that that wouldn’t happen.

You tried to bite your tongue, you really did, but after Polly stormed from the pub, you hesitated. Thomas stared at you, as if waiting for you to tuck your tail between your legs and scamper after Polly.

You really should have bit your tongue.

“Does she know you fucked me earlier? Or does she just not care that you had your cock inside me so long as you fuck her later?”

John nearly choked on his drink, wide eyes flickering back and forth between you and his brother. Arthur tried to hide an amused smirk behind his sleeve, failing miserably. The blond barmaid stared at you, mouth agape.

Thomas, though… Thomas stared at you with a cold fury in his haunting eyes that you were so unused to being subject of, the muscle in his jaw tense. “Arthur, walk Miss Kingsley home. I’m afraid she’s had too much to drink tonight.”

“Fuck off, Arthur,” you snapped as the oldest Shelby brother started to approach you. “I can walk myself home.” 

With one final look at Thomas, you turned and strode out of the pub, head held high the entire walk home and ignoring the constant ache in your chest.

That night marked the start of your self-imposed exile from anything Shelby - drinks and good company at the Garrison, tea with Polly at the Shelby residence on Watery Street, even assisting your uncle in his shop just in case John or Thomas stopped by. The only exception was visits to Ada and baby Karl, knowing that she had insisted she wasn’t a Shelby but rather a Thorne, and she wanted absolutely nothing to do with her brother.

Even so, distance and avoidance didn’t help ease the ache in your chest.

You really should have bit your tongue.


	4. act iv. you're my (temporary) salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hugged your body to his, shushing you as he would a spooked horse. His hands felt warm on your cold skin and you sighed at the touch, relieved that his touch didn’t repulse you, didn’t remind you of the men that had touched you without your consent. Their touch had made you feel sick, violated and used.
> 
> But not Thomas. Never Thomas. His touch was your salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of/allusion to rape/non-con, miscarriage

Your uncle died seven weeks after John’s wedding. 

It was sudden, but not unexpected. He had slowly deteriorated before your eyes; cancer, the doctor had said, as if it was some sort of consolation to know what it was that had killed your last living guardian. 

Instead, at twenty, you were left with no one else to turn to. Your uncle had left you a small sum in his will, as well as all the money your father had left you. Your young cousins left the day after the funeral to live in the countryside with relatives on their mother’s side of the family. 

Ada attended the funeral with you, comforting you as you comforted her following Freddie’s arrest, and you did your best to ignore the lone figure standing at the back of the service, away from the rest of the crowd.

(You hated how in tune your body still was to his mere presence, cursing the way your body buzzed pleasantly with want and longing at the slightest indication that he was near).

After your uncle had been buried and your cousins gone to the countryside, you packed up your scarce belongings and moved to a simple flat in Small Heath near Ada after learning your uncle's home and business would be sold to pay off debts - ironically, those debts were likely due to his partnership with the Shelby family - and you’d be unable to afford a place in the neighborhood you had lived in with your uncle and cousins.

Despite your newfound proximity to the Garrison and Watery Street, you avoided those places to the best of your ability. 

Until you suddenly couldn’t.

It had been overcast and the street lamps had been dim, but you never anticipated that the darkness of Small Heath would hide terrors worse than your nightmares. 

Your vision blurred, your legs trembled, and your tears left hot tracks down your face, stinging as they caught in the fresh scratches on your cheeks as you stumbled through the streets of Small Heath.

You weren’t close enough to your flat, you wouldn’t make it back before your legs gave out, and you weren’t sure that you hadn’t been followed by the men who had attacked you. But just ahead, as if a beacon in the night, the light and the sounds from the Garrison beckoned you, providing you salvation from the terrors of the night.

It reminded you of that first night that you met the Shelby brothers when you stumbled through the doors, knees cracking against the ground as your legs could hold you up no longer. The shift from a jovial atmosphere to one of caution was palpable, and the only sound that you could hear was the echoes of your sobs in the now silent pub.

And then, you felt as if you were underwater. You could make out the faint, faraway sounds of Harry calling for something, for someone. You could see blurred figures rushing towards you, frantically calling your name. The faint feeling of someone picking you up off the ground, one arm beneath your knees and another around your shoulders as your head lolled back. Someone called your name again, gently lifting your head back up.

And then...clarity. 

Haunting eyes and skin smelling of gunpowder and cigarette smoke. Rough yet gentle hands on your face, soft voice coaxing you to look at him, to focus on him, to keep your eyes open.

Thomas Shelby, like a fucking guardian angel, carried your limp, bloodied and bruised body to the private parlour in the Garrison, all while barking out orders - “get Polly”, “get clean rags and hot water”, “get a bottle of whiskey” - to those around him. 

In the privacy of the parlour, he removed your torn dress and bloodied shift, and then you stood naked before him, trembling. His movements slow, as if you were a horse that was easily spooked, he urged you into a chair while he inspected you. You watched as his gaze dragged across the scrapes and bruises on your arms, the finger-shaped bruises on your neck, and finally the blood on your thighs. You watched as the muscle in his jaw twitched, a telltale sign of his silent fury. You watched as his hands started to tremble as he reached towards the newly delivered rags and water. You watched him, feeling detached from yourself and unsure of what to say, of how to say it, to reassure yourself and him all at once, to wake up from this fucking nightmare.

“Nora,” he called your name softly, dragging a damp cloth across your face, across your arms, across your legs. Your gaze was locked on the bloody rag that he held in his hand. “Nora, look at me. Look at me, love.”

And then, you were detached no longer. The tears fell freely as your mind came back into your body, the realization that there was no waking up from this nightmare striking you harder than any man ever could. “They did… horrible things. Horrible things. To me.” You met his gaze then, tears blurring your vision. “To me, Thomas. To me.” Your body ached, shaking from the sobs that tore through you. “Why me, Thomas? Why me?”

He hugged your body to his, shushing you as he would a spooked horse. His hands felt warm on your cold skin and you sighed at the touch, relieved that his touch didn’t repulse you, didn’t remind you of the men that had touched you without your consent. Their touch had made you feel sick, violated and used.

But not Thomas. Never Thomas. His touch was your salvation.

And then Polly was there, shoving a full glass of whiskey into your hands - the comment about a drink and good company was on the tip of your tongue, but the reality of the situation left you unable to speak it - and helping Thomas clean the blood and fluid from your legs. You didn’t miss the look they shared when the bleeding between your legs didn’t stop, and it didn’t take long before you understood what was happening.

The tender breasts, the irritability, the sense that _something_ was different, something had changed. You’d even dismissed your missed monthlies as stress from your uncle's deteriorating health and his subsequent death and everything that had happened with Thomas.

But it wasn’t stress, and the realization that you had learned just a little too late caused the sobbing to shake your entire body, caused your hands to tremble as your gripped Thomas’s face between your hands, caused your lips to tremble as your breathed your apologies, caused you to rest your forehead against his to provide even the briefest reprieve from the trembling.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” you whispered over and over again through your tears, thinking of the life you lost before you even realized it existed. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. All my fault.”

The gentle touch of his fingers danced across the skin of your hairline, brushing your hair away from your face as he whispered soothing words to you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead each time you winced from the sting of the cloth Polly dragged across your skin.

Once Polly had cleaned you up as best as she could and stitched together the few wounds that were too deep to heal on their own, she left you and Thomas to yourselves. Left you to mourn a life you didn’t know you would have to mourn. Left Thomas to comfort you, maybe to mourn your lost baby, too.

“Tell me who did this to you,” he demanded, voice poisonous, dripping in the calm fury that you’d grown so accustomed to in the past year. He draped his coat over you before calling John and Arthur into the room. “Tell me who fuckin' did this!” You flinched at his raised voice, but his hand, so tender and familiar and comforting, trailed across your jawline to sooth you. You leaned into his touch. “Nora, please. You need to tell me, love. You need to.”

With one final swig of the drink in your hand, you told him what happened - how the group of men had surprised you and dragged you into the shadows, how they pressed a blade to you and threatened you and violated you. You didn’t know their names, but you described them as best as you could, hands trembling as you had to relive what they did to you. 

You knew what came next. He would leave you to track down the men responsible, but you just couldn’t let him go. “Don’t leave me. Please. Please, Thomas. I can’t be alone. Please, don’t leave me alone.” 

His haunting eyes, full of anger and sadness and concern, traced the lines of your tear-streaked, bruised face before nodding his acquiescence to you. “Arthur, John.” He didn’t have to say any more for his brothers to understand what he was asking them to do, making their way from the room.

As you watched them leave over your shoulder, you caught sight of the blond barmaid standing outside the doors, green eyes likely searching for Thomas. You stared at her, sadness settling deep in your chest as your eyes met just as the doors snapped shut. “Hey,” Thomas’s voice in your ear pulled your attention back to him. “Focus on me, love. Don’t pay attention to what’s goin’ on out there.”

“Please, Thomas. Stay with me. Don’t leave me,” you begged, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Please.”

“Never,” was his response, as if the answer was obvious.

“Don’t lie to me, Thomas. Please. I can’t take anymore heartbreak. Not tonight.”

He averted his gaze and nodded. “Tonight then,” he promised. 

“For tonight,” you agreed, melting into his touch.

You made your way back to Watery Street, ending your avoidance of the Shelby residence in the same tragic evening you ended your avoidance of the Garrison. Thomas was gentle, more gentle than you could remember him ever being, as he usher you into his bed, pulling you closer as you cried into his chest.

His arms wrapped tightly around you and his familiar scent kept you grounded, but even as you mourned the baby you’d never get to hold, that you’d never get to watch grow up, that you’d never get to see if they’d have Thomas’s haunting eyes, you couldn’t help but think of the blond barmaid that Thomas left behind at the pub.

But he had promised you that night.

And as promised, that night Thomas was your salvation, no matter how temporary.


	5. act v. my name etched on your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d heard it be said from some people in Small Heath that Polly had a sixths sense about things - she had known Ada was pregnant before Ada knew, had known that Ada would have a boy, had known that Thomas has a piece of his heart with your name etched across it - so it really shouldn’t have surprised you when Thomas showed up at your door three nights later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of/allusion to rape/non-con & miscarriage

After that night, you lifted your self-imposed exile from the Shelby family. Once most of your wounds had healed and the worst of the bruises had faded, you began joining John and Arthur for a drink and good company at the Garrison again. (But never with Thomas, and never on nights that they knew that the blond barmaid would be there). You continued taking tea with Polly every Tuesday afternoon, eyeing the doors to the betting house curiously, trying and failing to stop your thoughts from wandering to Thomas and his barmaid secretary. You spent three days a week with Ada, helping her care for little Karl and keeping her mind off of Freddie as much as she helped you keep your mind off of Thomas. 

But Thomas wasn’t entirely avoidable. He showed up at your door one evening, reeking of blood and whiskey. He whispered honeyed words in your ear as you helped clean the blood from his hands, and against your better judgment, you took him to bed, relishing in the feel of his body against yours, his hands on your breasts, and his lips and tongue on your skin. 

In a display of uncharacteristic tenderness, he pressed soft kisses to each and every bruise that still marred your skin from that night. He took his time with you, paying attention to each response his touch and his kiss elicited from you, to ensure that his actions didn’t dig up the deeply buried memories of what those men had done to you. (But now, those men were dead, buried in a field somewhere, and you were still here, surviving). He whispered reassuring words to you, as his hands traced the lines of your body. His actions only faltered once, when his hand traced over your naked stomach, and for the first time, you could see the grief in his eyes at the loss that was shared between the two of you. He looked to you for reassurance before he sheathed himself within you, kissing you tenderly as he did so, and it left you more breathless than the sex ever could.

Part of you wondered if Thomas was doing this to wash your mind clean of the last time a man had been inside of you. Another part of you wondered if maybe this was his way of showing that he really did love you, in his own fucked up way. You didn’t particularly care which it was. 

For the first time in months, he fell asleep beside you after you were both breathless and sated. Your hand carded through his hair as he snored softly, head pillowed on your chest. Thoughts were flying through your head faster than you could keep up.

He appeared at your door two more times that week, late at night and always reeking of whiskey and blood. Once, it was his own blood and you did your best to stitch up the small wound on his bicep, but you knew that your needlework wasn’t nearly as good as Polly’s. Each night, once you had cleaned the blood from his skin, you took him to bed. And just like that first night, he treated you like a porcelain doll that threatened to shatter at the first sign of being mishandled. 

But you didn’t complain. 

Those nights gave you a few glorious hours to forget about all the shit that had gone horribly wrong between you and Thomas in the past six months. You forgot that Thomas didn’t love you. You forgot that the barmaid even existed. You forgot that you were alone in the world, with no one to comfort you during the darkest of nights.

But you could never forget about the small life, a little bit of you and a little bit of Thomas, that had slipped through your fingers when Thomas’s hand always, without fail, faltered over your flat stomach. The third night, whether it was the alcohol or the grief finally overcoming him, he broke. Thomas Shelby, the stoic man that kept all of his emotions, all of his vulnerabilities under lock and key, broke. You held each other as he cried, his head pillowed against your breasts and your own tears slipping down your cheeks and chin, landing like punctuation marks of your own grief on his bare back. 

The sex that night had been reverent, religious almost. He surrendered to you completely. You could feel every single vulnerability the man kept hidden from the world in his touch and his kiss. His words, whispered against your skin, felt like a prayer. His haunting eyes on your body, drinking in your every move as you moved above him, felt akin to worship. 

You fell asleep holding each other on those nights, but he was never there when you woke up. And, surprising yourself, you were okay with that. After weeks turned months without Thomas, you realized that you were okay with holding only a single piece of his heart, no matter how small it was, so long as that single piece remained solely yours. (You forgot to even consider the shattered pieces of your heart that littered the floor beneath your feet).

Polly commented on the change in you a few weeks after Thomas began visiting you every two or three nights. “You’ve been sleeping with Tommy again,” she commented offhandedly in the middle of a discussion about the Billy Kimber issue (which Thomas absolutely would have disapproved of), making you nearly choke on your tea. “Is he treating you right?”

You blinked. “I s’pose. Hasn’t been treating me badly.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s been walking around like he’s lost half the time since he learned the truth about that woman, Grace. Figures he’d find his way back to you for some clarity.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

And just as Polly had been the one to tell you about the blond haired, green-eyed barmaid that had caught Thomas’s attention, Polly is the one to tell you about the blond haired, green-eyed spy that had been feeding information to the Inspector that had it out for Thomas and the Peaky Blinders. 

“He should’ve just married you when I told him, too, and none of this shit would have happened.” Again, her comment catches you off guard, but thankfully you had abandoned you now cold tea before Polly had gotten into all the details. “Don’t look at me like that. He knows he should’ve married you. You know it, too. That boy’s just too stubborn to admit that he fucked up.”

“Is he still seeing her?” you asked meekly. You remembered the nights after his second visit that you stayed up, legs tucked under you in your favorite armchair with a book, just a little longer than you typically would, hoping that Thomas would find his way to your door again. When he didn’t show and you had blown the candles out, your thoughts wandered to that treacherous part of your mind that wondered if he was with the barmaid instead of with you.

“Truthfully, I don’t know. With any luck, she’ll flee Birmingham with her tail tucked between her legs and not come back.” You silently agreed with her.

You’d heard it be said from some people in Small Heath that Polly had a sixths sense about things - she had known Ada was pregnant before Ada knew, had known that Ada would have a boy, had known that Thomas has a piece of his heart with your name etched across it - so it really shouldn’t have surprised you when Thomas showed up at your door three nights later.

He didn’t reek of whiskey and blood this time. Instead, he seemed perfectly sober as he stepped inside your flat, hands in his pockets and gaze cast down at the floorboards. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the table in the corner that served as your modest dining table. Your eyes followed him as he drifted through your flat, pulling two glasses from the cabinet and an unopened bottle of whiskey from the shelf that you could barely reach. He poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass before settling into your armchair and slouching in a very un-Thomas Shelby manner.

“Sure, make yourself at home,” you quipped, taking the proffered second glass of whiskey from him and settling yourself on the loveseat across from him. You watched him from the corner of your eye as you drank deeply, noticing that, rather than drinking the whiskey he had poured himself, he only stared into his glass, as if the amber liquid held all the answers he was searching for. You were unsure of what to make of this situation - he hadn’t visited you during respectable hours before and certainly not while there was no trace of whiskey on his breath and no blood to clean off of him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your decidedly sober visit?”

He was silent for a short moment, gaze flickering between you and the whiskey in his hand. “Grace left.”

You pursed your lips and gave a single nod. “I see.” You leaned forward in your seat, the amber liquid in your glass sloshing around and spilling in little droplets to the floor. “And what am I supposed to do about that, Thomas? Let you fuck me until your forget that she left you behind in the slums with the rest of us?”

“She asked me to go with her,” he murmured, his haunting eyes lifting from the glass in his hands to meet yours. “She wanted to leave, go to America.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I should have.” You open your mouth to argue with him, but he lifted a single hand to silence you. “I flipped a coin. Heads, I go. Tails, I stay.”

“Of course Thomas fucking Shelby flips a damn coin to make a decision like that.” You cross your arms over your chest and settle further into the loveseat before averting your gaze. “So I assume you’re here because it was tails. Figured if you couldn’t have her, you could have me, right?” You stood then, not wanting to finish this discussion. You grabbed his coat and tossed it at him. “I’m not a fucking consolation prize, Thomas. Now, please, kindly get the fuck out of my home.”

“Nora,” he began, standing and striding towards you. 

You lashed out at him, your tiny fists banging against his chest, trying to push him towards the door. “Get out! Get out, Thomas!” You felt as if your heart was beating in your throat, slowly choking you. “Please, just… Thomas, please.” You pushed against him again, but he held his ground.

“Stop it! Nora, stop it!” You heard the sound of his discarded coat crumpling on the floor. You tried to push against him again, but his hands gripped your wrists like vices, holding you firmly in place. “Will you just fuckin’ listen to me for one goddamn minute?” He waited until you were looking at him again before admitting, “It was fucking heads, Nora. I flipped the damn coin, and it landed on fuckin’ heads.”

It took a moment for you to fully understand the meaning behind his words. “What?” you breathed, voice breaking as you choked back a sob. Once you found your voice, you repeated yourself. “Fucking _what_?”

“The coin was heads. I should’ve gone with her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave Birmingham, couldn’t leave Pol and Ada and the boys. I couldn’t fuckin’ leave _you_.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me right now, Thomas Shelby,” you warned, drying your tears on your sleeve. “Don’t fucking lie.”

“I wouldn’t. Not about this, I swear.” He pulled you closer to him, his nose nearly touching yours and his damn haunting eyes staring at you as if he was looking into your very soul. ”I know I’ve been a shit person, know that I’ve lied to you, but I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Never.”

He kissed you then, like you were the very air he needed to breathe to survive. (You kissed him back with just as much ferocity, because without him, you truly might not have survived). Discarded coat and half full whiskey glasses forgotten, you and Thomas stumbled your way towards your bedroom, a mass of tangled limbs and frantic hands and unresolved feelings.

The sex that night was...different. It wasn’t like the passionate exploration of your first time together, nor was it like the tentative coupling of the first time he showed up at your door late at night, drunk and bloody. It wasn’t like the anger-fueled rutting of the night of John’s wedding, nor was it like the pseudo-religious encounter of the third time he showed up at you door.

He showered you with affection that he typically withheld - soft kisses down your body, hands massaging the flesh of your thighs as his head dipped between them, fingers laced with yours as he sheathed himself inside of you. His pace was relaxed, languid even, with one hand holding yours like an anchor on the pillow beside your head and the other gripping your thigh to adjust the angle as he pleased. His name was like a prayer on your lips, your nails dragging across the skin of his scalp, as he hit that gloriously perfect spot within you, and, despite his best efforts to make the moment last forever, you tumbled over the edge and pulled him over it right along with you.

(It was your name on his lips that night, and suddenly your heart began to mend itself back together).

“Why didn’t you go with her?” you finally asked once you’d calmed your racing heart and caught your breath, lounging atop him and staring into his haunting eyes.

“I told you. I couldn’t leave you. I flipped that coin, and while waiting for it to come back down and give me my answer, I just… I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t.”

“Are you going to regret your decision to stay?”

You could feel his shoulders sag at your question, and you knew the answer before he even gave it. Yet, you were curious to see if we would continue his newfound proclivity for telling you the truth tonight. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Doesn’t really matter now, though, does it? I’m here, with you, while she’s probably on a train to London by now.” 

You shrugged, ignoring the nagging insecurity at the back of your mind. “I s’pose not.” You sat up then, straddling him and doing your best to ignore the feeling of him growing hard again beneath you. “I need you to be honest with me, Thomas. Why did you stay? Was it because of...because of what happened when I was…” You trailed off, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, unable to say the words out loud. “That night at the Garrison? Was it because of the…”

“The baby,” he finished for you, a sadness in his voice that you’d never heard before. “No, it wasn’t the baby. I wasn’t even sure if it was mine at first, didn’t want to believe that it was. Pol told me it had to have been.” And for only the second time since you’d met him over a year prior, you watched as he broke, his haunting eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She held it in her hand, a tiny little thing. Said you’d been too far along for it to be John’s.”

“Thomas,” you soothed, hand caressing his face. He leaned into your touch and let out a shaky breath. Watching him fall apart in front of you was enough to open the floodgates. Sobs wracked your body, tears fell freely down your cheeks, and you croaked, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Thomas. It was my fault. I hadn’t… If I had just… All my fault. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He gripped the back of your neck tightly and pulled you closer to him, pressing his forehead to yours. “No. Not your fault. Nora, look at me. Look at me, love.” You hesitantly lifted your gaze to meet his, tears blurring your vision as the sinking feeling that you’d never quite get over this grief settled deep within your heart. “It’s not your fault. It’ll never be your fuckin’ fault, Nora. They did that to you because of me. Because of me, Nora.” The anguish in his voice brought forth new tears, and you wanted nothing more than to hold him and wash away all the pain. “I do terrible fuckin’ things, and because of that people I love get hurt. They hurt you because I fuckin’ love you. It’s my fuckin’ fault, Nora. Not yours. Never yours.”

You kissed him then, the salty taste of your combined tears on your lips. You needed his warmth, his touch, his love to drive away the hurt that had settled so deeply within you you feared it would never leave. But you also wanted your warmth, your touch, your love to help drive away the pain that had settled so deeply within him that it haunted him day and night, his demons never silent.

(You knew you’d never truly be able to drive away the demons that plagued him, but made a promise that night that you’d never stop trying).

He held you as you slept that night, as if you would simply disappear if he were to let go, and he kissed you as you eye fluttered open in the early morning sunlight. “You stayed,” you noted, not bothering to hide the surprise in your voice. No matter how many times you fell asleep beside Thomas Shelby, there hadn’t been a single morning you’d woken next to him.

“I stayed. And I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.” 

You couldn’t help but be okay with taking what you could get from him, despite knowing deep down that you deserved more than empty promises and a love that was more than likely to lead to further heartbreak. It reminded you of Thomas’s smoking habit, but this time you were the smoker and Thomas the cigarette that you couldn’t help but indulge in, even though it was slowly turning your insides to tar and ash, killing you - slowly, but killing you nonetheless.

“Alright.”


	6. interlude i. too sweet, too innocent

He knew from the moment he met you that you were too sweet, too innocent to be associating with his family, had even mentioned as much to John after he had returned from walking you home, but his little brother was too infatuated with you to listen to anything he had to say on the matter. 

And so, the following night you returned, for your promised drink and good company. It surprised Tommy to see you keep up with his brother’s banter, and before long, after many more nights of drinks and good company at the Garrison, it was like you’d known the Shelby family your whole life rather than just a mere few months.

Tommy knew that John was infatuated with you, knew that his attraction to you was the main reason that his younger brother had even invited you to the Garrison that day he first met you, but Tommy couldn’t help but let his curiosity lead him down a rabbit hole that eventually had him watching you as you chatted to his brothers, a sly smile on your lips and laughter lighting up your face, cheeks already turned a pretty shade of pink from the whiskey you preferred to drink. The way you bit your lip mid-conversation, plump pink flesh dragged between your teeth, had planted the seed of attraction that was slowly growing within him. The way you would boldly meet his eyes over the shoulders of his brothers, slightly raising your glass to him with a curt nod, turned the seed into a sprout. The way you effortlessly got on with every member of his family, even troublesome Ada and hard to please Polly, turned the sprout into a budding plant. The way you’d call John and Arthur on their bullshit, claiming to have no time for their nonsense in your busy schedule - Tommy had nearly laughed when he heard this, knowing that you spent most of you days helping your uncle, either by looking after his children or assisting with the business’s accounts - made the budding plant begin to bloom.

And then, despite his foul mood after a sleepless night and a less than ideal day of business, Tommy had sat next to you at the bar, knowing full well that John and Arthur wouldn’t be making it that night, and Ada was out doing whatever the fuck it was she did on nights she returned to the Shelby residence late. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that night that had caused the attraction, once just a seed that was easily ignored, to bloom in colors so vibrant he could no longer overlook it. 

He also knew that he had been the one to snuff out the fire that had once burned so brightly within you - that fire that made you bold, determined, and defiant, drawing him to you like a moth to a flame - when he fucked everything up after meeting Grace. Deep down, he knew that you deserved better than him, better than someone who would hurt you so easily. (But then he learned that you had fucked John to get back at him, and he thought that maybe you really did deserve each other). 

He saw sparks, signs that he hadn’t entirely snuffed out the fire - that it was still there, just barely hanging on - a few times after everything went to shit. Twice on the night of John’s wedding - first, when he fucked you after you’d had it out, and again when you just had to have the last word before turning your back on him at the Garrison. Again, when you’d waded through the trauma of being assaulted and miscarrying in the same night to give him the details he needed to make sure that those men never laid hands on you (or anyone else) ever again. And once more when you nearly forced him from your home without letting him explain himself, going so far as to try to actually physically remove him from the property, when he chose to stay with you.

And now, elbows braced on the bar behind him, as he watched you, sat at your usual spot in the Garrison and laughing with his siblings, he could see the fire slowly regaining its former flare, burning brighter and brighter with each passing day, becoming a beacon for him in the darkest of nights. Tommy still thought that you were too sweet, too innocent to be associating with his family, especially with him, but after the past year, he had no doubt that you belonged here. You were a Shelby in all but name (a fact both Pol and Ada were keen to change). 

A smile spread across his face as you approached him, taking in your flushed cheeks and the lively look in your eyes. You sat on the stool beside him and leaned in to tease, “Come here often, Mr. Shelby?” 

Tommy chuckled and shook his head. “Not nearly as often as you, love.” His eyes never left you, fascinated that after everything that had happened, after all the hurt he had put you through, you still chose to be here at his side. “Having a good evening?”

You nodded as you sipped from your glass of whiskey. “I am. It’s good to have everyone together now that all of the Billy Kimber business is settled.” You set your glass down on the bar, and Harry was quick to refill it. “What are you doing all the way over here? You should come sit with us, Thomas.”

“I should,” he agreed, eyeing you over the top of his glass as he drank what little liquor was left in it.

Your brow quirked up. “So why don’t you?”

“Because I’m debating taking you home early and having my way with you.”

He was reminded of how absolutely ridiculous you could be after a few drinks when you made a show of covering your mouth and gasping loudly. “Why, Mr. Shelby! I’m absolutely scandalized.” Tommy only smirked and rolled his eyes at you in response. “Have one drink with everyone. After that we can go home and I’ll let you do anything you want to me.”

That got his attention. He raised his brows and considered you, eyes tracing the lines of your face. “Anything?”

You shrugged. “Within certain limits, of course.”

“Of course.” He grabbed his drink - freshly refilled courtesy of Harry - in one hand and your hand in the other, leading you away from the bar and towards the rest of the family. He made himself comfortable in the chair that you had previously vacated and pulled you onto his lap, arm settling comfortably around your waist.

“So you finally decided to join us,” Ada quipped, brow raised and lips pursed in annoyance - Tommy knew it would take some time yet for her to come around to forgiving him, but she would eventually.

“‘Course he did,” Arthur teased. “Nora’s got his balls in the palm of her hand. She beckons, he comes.”

“In more ways than one, likely,” John added with a mischievous grin, waggling his brows. Arthur laughed with John, Ada scolded him for his crude joke, and you flushed a pretty pink that had Tommy captivated. 

“Staying long? Should we have Harry grab us another bottle?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the empty bottle and the half-empty glasses that littered the table.

“‘Fraid not,” Tommy answered, gaze flickering towards you as you sipped from her glass. “I was told I needed to have one drink with everyone before I can take my woman home and have my way with her.” He smirked as you choked on your drink.

“Thomas Shelby!”

“Are you scandalized now, love?”

You grinned and rolled your eyes at him one more time before turning to Ada and resuming the conversation that Tommy assumed was interrupted when you retrieved him from the bar. John and Arthur captured his attention, discussing the upcoming races they had to prepare for now that they had dismantled Billy Kimber’s organization and finalized the absorption of newly controlled assets into the business. 

Though discussing business in front of you had been strictly off limits before, it was one of the changes that you had insisted on when you picked up where you left off. (Tommy agreed to include you in the legal business. He still wanted you as far away from anything illegal as humanly possible). If you were to be a part of his life, he needed to be willing to share every aspect of it with you. It was one of the insecurities that remained after Grace left and he stayed. He felt the guilt of being responsible for those insecurities often, but it was getting better. (At least, you told him that it was getting better. He wasn’t a fucking mind reader).

It had been nearly three months since Grace left, and though Tommy thought of her occasionally - wondering where she was and what she was doing, what life would have been like if he’d gone with her - he found that the regret he initially admitted to potentially feeling lessened more and more each day that he woke up beside you. 

He finished his drink once Arthur and John lost interest in discussing business and swiftly finished your drink as well before you were able to object. “There, love. I finished my drink as well as half of yours. Let’s get you home, hm? Before it gets too late.”

You said your goodbyes to Tommy’s siblings before excusing yourself to wish Harry a goodnight, promising to meet Tommy at the door. He watched you walk away as he tugged his coat on and grabbed his cap.

“You’re treating her well, right?” Ada’s question had caught him off guard, and he turned to her with knit brows and pursed lips, noticing John and Arthur had paused their conversation to listen in. “Right, Tommy?”

“Of course,” he answered, dumbfounded that she would even ask. Figured it was obvious that he was. Things weren't perfect between you and him by any means, but they were improving - you were learning to trust Tommy again, and he was learning to be more honest with you, about his feelings, his desires, his demons, everything. 

“Good.” Ada nodded. “That’s good. Make sure it stays that way.”

He was quick to say his goodbyes once he saw you waiting for him at the door, and he was quick to get you back to your place. (He’d made himself at home there in the past few months, keeping suits in your wardrobe and hiding a pack of cigarettes at the very back of the shelf you could barely reach). He was quick to get you stripped of the dress you had worn out that night, and he was quick to assist you in undressing him, until finally you both stood as naked as the other in your dimly lit bedroom. He was quick to kiss you the way you deserved to be kissed, and he was quick to press you into the mattress as his hands and his mouth explored your body, enjoying the noises that his ministrations elicited from you.

“All right, love. Over you go,” he tapped your hip when he was done with his exploration, directing you to flip onto your stomach. "You told me anything I want, and I want you on your knees."

You shrugged but did as you were told. "Tamer than I expected, honestly." He grabbed your hips, growing impatient, and pulled them upwards until you were on your knees and elbows in front of him. You looked back at him over your shoulder, smirking wickedly. "And here I thought you’d be romantic tonight, Thomas.”

He leaned forward, entering you as he did, and nipped at the bare skin of your shoulder before sinking a hand into your hair and gripping tightly. “You should know better by now, love.”

Tommy was a firm believer that you were still too sweet, too innocent to be with a man like him, that you he didn't deserve someone like you. But as he stared at you, naked beneath him, eyes half-lidded with and an attractive blush coloring you skin - whether from the whiskey or his attention, he didn’t really care - he knew that he didn’t give a damn.

He was Tommy fucking Shelby and he took what he wanted, whether he deserved it or not.


	7. act vi. i'll wait for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Met a very interesting man today,” you began, grabbing the attention of all three Shelby brothers. “Goes by the name of Alfie Solomons. Nice fellow.” You watched as the muscle in Thomas’s jaw tightened, twitching ever so slightly. “It was the strangest thing,” you continued, breaking your train of thought as you took a sip from your drink. “He knew my name, Thomas. Knew your name, too.”

Your shattered heart had nearly healed itself completely, leaving only the barest of cracks in its surface to remind you of the heartbreak you had experienced in 1919, by the time tragedy struck the Shelby family doubly in a single week. 

Things with Thomas had been almost as good as they had been when your tumultuous relationship began in the fall of 1918. He was attentive, he hadn’t strayed from your bed, and he let you behind the walls he had built so painstakingly around his heart after the war. He grew to know your mind, your body, and your spirit intimately, and each time he looked at you with his haunting eyes, the sparkling glint of his love for you reflecting in them, it made your heart stutter. He had even allowed you a larger role in the family business without too much resistance, giving you the responsibility of maintaining the books for the Garrison following his purchase of the family-favorite pub. (And although Arthur was the official owner, the eldest Shelby brother was more than happy to allow you to manage the day to day operations). You were content, happy even.

You should have known that the other shoe would drop sooner or later.

First, Freddie Thorne had died, leaving Ada a young widow and leaving Karl without a father. You did your best to comfort her, spending most of what little free-time you had between your responsibilities at the Garrison at Ada’s home. You helped her care for Karl, the little boy not understanding why his mother struggled to get out of bed each day and silently stared into the distance with a vacant look in her eyes. You even helped her care for Ada herself when she needed it most, ensuring that she ate something, anything, and that she held her son at least once a day.

Then, there was the explosion at the Garrison. Thomas had seethed for days afterwards, chain smoking as he paced back in forth in his office, ignoring your usual quips about his smoking habit as you watched him from the chair in front of his desk. After the explosion, you spent an increasing amount of time in the betting house and in his office, hoping that there was a job or a task that he would give you to prevent you from being idle all day. (There was never any task that he required of you, but he was more than pleased to bend you over his desk on numerous occasions, if only to relieve a little stress, and you were happy to oblige).

And then you had assumed that everything was back to normal when he proposed a weekend in London, just the two of you. At the end of the workday on Friday evening he’d packed your luggage into his car, and the two of you made the drive south to London, discussing your plans for the weekend ahead.

He took you dancing that night, smiling at you and kissing you as he held you on the dance floor like you were two normal people - not like he was Thomas Shelby and you were a woman too in love with him to see the glaringly obvious flaws in your relationship. When you’d finally returned to your hotel in the early hours of the morning, he fucked you against the wall of your suite, grinning into the crook of your neck as the guests in the room next to you pounded on the wall in response to your cries of ecstasy.

You should have known that the trip to London hadn’t been purely for pleasure when John and Arthur joined you at breakfast the following morning, but then Thomas kissed you sweetly and handed you some money, whispering in your ear to “buy yourself something nice for dinner that night, and maybe something pretty to wear under the dress”. He winked, and then he was gone, leading John and Arthur out onto the London streets.

So, you did as you were told. 

You spent that morning and afternoon walking up and down the shop-lined streets of London, stopping before a window display every now and then. You’d long since found a new dress to wear later that night - as well as a satin and lace number to wear beneath it - but you had zero intention of spending the afternoon in your suite alone, knowing that without a doubt Thomas would return no sooner than just before you needed to leave to make your dinner reservation.

As you stood before a window display of lush, fur-lined coats, a man had approached you, the sound of his cane clacking against the pavement, growing louder and louder as he drew near. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to speak.

“Lovely thing, innit?” he finally asked, nodding his head at the coat in the window. He turned to observe you then, adding, “Would look good on you, Mrs. Shelby.”

You froze, breath catching in your throat. “I think you’re mistaken, sir. I’m unwed.”

“That right?” he questioned, glancing down and eyeing the distinct lack of a ring on your left hand with feigned interest. “Surprisin’ really, considerin’ how long Thomas has had a pretty little thing like you on ‘is arm.”

You faced him fully then, observing the man with narrowed eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Mister..?”

He grinned at you then, holding a hand out. “Alfie Solomons, but feel free to just call me Alfie, love.” You took his hand hesitantly, ignoring the way he held on just a little too tight. “How ‘bout we have a little chat, you and I? I know a nice little spot we can go down that way.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing further down the street. 

“I think I’ll stay right here, if you don’t mind, Mr. Solomons.”

“Oh, come now, love. Indulge a new friend a little, yeah?” he urged, and you swallowed thickly, unsure of how to get yourself out of this situation.

“Is that what you are? A friend?” You’d heard the name Solomons before, through the doors of Thomas’s office during a family meeting you were barred from joining, and you knew the likelihood of him being a friend was minimal. “Would Thomas agree?”

His lips, nearly hidden beneath his thick beard, curled into a delighted smirk. “Right down to business then, eh?” He chuckled. “I knew I'd like you, Miss Kingsley.”

“How do you know who I am?”

He stepped closer, tilting his head towards the ground and scratching at his beard, sunlight glinting off the numerous rings that adorned his hand. “You see, I make it my business to know what goes on in this city, right? Who comes, who goes. Y'know, the regular goin' ons. ‘Specially when I hear that a small outfit outta Birmingham of all fuckin’ places wants to expand their little business into my city.”

“Is it your city, or is it Sabini’s city?” you asked, recalling another name you’d overhead. Perhaps antagonizing the man hadn’t been your most clever choice that day, but you weren’t about to stand down. Instead, you held your breath and stared directly into his eyes, unflinching.

And he laughed, clearly amused. “D’you have any bite to go with that bark, Miss Kingsley?”

“You keen to find out?” you challenged.

He raised his brows, wagging a finger at you. “I can see why Thomas keeps you around. Feisty little thing, you are!” And then he was stepping away from you, turning his attention back to the coats in the window. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty o’ opportunities in the future to learn more about that bite o’ yours, love. For now, I just want you to pass a message along to Thomas. Let him know I’ll be contactin’ him in the near future.” 

He left you then, walking towards a car that you hadn’t even noticed was idling behind you. You let out a shaky breath and prepared yourself for the walk back to the hotel, intent on finding Thomas immediately. 

Just as you turned to stride away, Alfie’s voice rang out, calling after you, “And Nora, love. Maybe tell Thomas that he should leave you at home the next time he comes to my city uninvited. Wouldn’t want you stumblin’ across the wrong person all by yourself, now would we?”

And then he was gone, and you were walking back to the hotel as fast as your legs would carry you. As expected, Thomas hadn’t been there when you returned, so you dressed for the evening and waited for him, sitting at the edge of the bed and counting the minutes as they passed.

Forty-seven minutes had passed by the time he finally strode through the door of your suite, pulling his suit jacket off and loosening his tie.

“I had an interesting day today,” you commented, hoping to catch his attention as he moved about the room, changing into a fresh suit.

“We’ll talk about it at dinner, yeah?” he answered, catching your gaze in the mirror as he adjusted his tie. “We’re running a bit late. You ready?”

You stood and wordlessly followed him from the room and down the stairs to the lobby where Arthur and John waited patiently. The four of you packed yourselves into Thomas’s car, your destination on the other side of town. The ride had been deafeningly quiet, none of the brothers willing to speak of whatever it was they had spent the day doing. You remained equally as silent once you were seated at your table, drinks in front of all four of you and your food orders placed with the young waiter, while the boys chatted amicably.

Thomas glanced at you over the rim of his glass as he sipped from it, and you waited patiently for him to speak. “What was it you were sayin’ back at the hotel? You had an interesting day?” he asked when he finally returned the glass to the table.

You smiled at him pleasantly, making nice. “I did.”

He returned your smile and nodded. “That’s good.”

“Met a very interesting man today,” you began, grabbing the attention of all three Shelby brothers. “Goes by the name of Alfie Solomons. Nice fellow.” You watched as the muscle in Thomas’s jaw tightened, twitching ever so slightly. “It was the strangest thing,” you continued, breaking your train of thought as you took a sip from your drink. “He knew my name, Thomas. Knew your name, too.”

“Is that right?” Your lips curled into a tight smile at the rigid tone of his voice. 

“Asked me to pass along a message to you. Is he a friend of yours?”

His infuriated gaze snapped to you then, and, through gritted teeth, he snapped, “Stop fuckin’ around, Nora. You know well enough that he isn’t. What’d he say to you?”

“Mistook me for your wife and asked if I had a bite to go with my bark.”

He leaned forward in your chair and gripped your chin in his hand, looking down at you with a fire in his eyes that you hadn’t seen in some time. “What did he fuckin’ say to you, Nora? The truth this time.”

“That was the truth,” you defended, pulling away from his grip. “Also wanted me to tell you he’d be contacting you soon. Said I should tell you to leave me home the next time you come to London on fucking _business_ , Thomas. I should’ve fucking known that this holiday was never meant for just the two of us.”

His eyes softened then, his hand cupping your cheek far gentler than he had held your chin. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You shook your head. “No. Might’ve threatened me. Think it was more of a warning to you, though. I’m not really sure.”

The mood of dinner ruined - although it hadn’t exactly been thrilling beforehand - the four of you ate in relative silence, only speaking when the sound of your utensils against the china got to be too rattling. The drive back to the hotel had been mostly quiet as well, with John making poorly-timed jokes every now and then. Even once you and Thomas had been shut in your suite, John and Arthur settled in their own rooms for the evening, the silence hung in the air. 

Finally, “We gonna talk about this?”

Thomas glanced at you from his place before the window as he lit his cigarette. “What is there to talk about?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me the real fucking reason for this trip? Why’d you feel the need to lie about it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I was tryna do something nice for you?”

You snorted. “If that were the case, Thomas, you would have conducted your business another time. Instead, you dragged me into this shit and it nearly got me accosted in the street by a man whose business you’re trying to poach in the very near future.”

He blew out a puff of smoke. “You really wanna fight about this right now?”

“No,” you sighed, “because regardless of what I have to say, you’re going to do whatever the hell it is that you want to do.”

“Good.” And that was the end of it. The issue wasn’t brought up again that night - not when you and Thomas had your obligatory evening fuck, neither of you truly into that night; not when you crawled beneath the blankets of the bed and turned you back on him; not when he grabbed his coat and cap and left you alone in the room, knowing that you'd still be awake, waiting for him, when he got back; and certainly not when he returned over an hour later, breath smelling of whiskey, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and dried blood on his knuckles.

You wordlessly helped him wipe the blood from his hands before coercing him into bed, and it was only once you were tucked into his side, staring into his haunting eyes, that you asked, “Did you take care of what you came here to do?”

“Yes,” he answered curtly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Good.” You nodded, repeating, “That’s good.”

And as you drifted asleep in his arms, the feeling that this was only the beginning of new problems - for you and Thomas, for the Shelby family, for the Peaky Blinders - had settled deep within the pit of your stomach.


	8. act vii. the woman of your dreams

It wasn’t long after you'd returned from London that the Italians set their sights on Thomas.

You’d already prepared for bed that evening and had curled up in your armchair with a book and two fingers of whiskey, waiting for Thomas to walk through the door. Your eyes flickered back and forth between the pages of your book to the clock, and you impatience turned to worry. You’d almost gave in and went to look for him yourself when Pol telephoned you, telling you what had happened.

You hadn’t even bothered to change out of your nightgown before leaving, merely tugging the new fur coat that Thomas had gifted you following the trip to London before you were out the door and rushing towards the Shelby residence.

At the hospital, the nurses had initially resisted your wishes to see him - ‘family only’, they had said - but once they had understood just who you were to Thomas, they were quick to lower their gaze and escort you to his bedside. He wasn’t conscious when you’d arrived, and you figured he wouldn’t be for some time. 

“He’s been sedated,” the nurse had explained before leaving you alone with him.

So you sat patiently, waiting for him to eventually wake, and took in his appearance. The Italians had done a number on him - numerous cuts marred his face and one eye was swollen and turning a garish purple. Your hand trembled as you gently pushed hair away from his forehead. You’d never seen him in such a state, and your mind immediately went to the night when you had appeared before him at the Garrison, bloodied and bruised. You were stuck between feeling unfettered rage towards the men who did this to him and feeling abject distress at the condition he had been left in. 

Was that how he had felt that night as he cleaned the blood from your body and held you as you cried into his shoulder? 

You fell asleep that night with your head rested on the stiff mattress of the hospital cot, your small hand curled around his much larger one. He stirred once in the middle of the night, squeezing your hand gently, coaxing you awake. You blinked at him, eyes groggy, as his hand slipped from your grip, reaching up to trace the line of your jaw with a feather light touch. You leaned into his touch - needing the affirmation that Thomas, your Thomas, was truly okay - and whispered his name softly.

And then he spoke, and the small, barely healed cracks on your heart began to widen. “Grace,” he breathed out, his good eye looking at you - looking through you - with such tender affection that it made your heart drop into your stomach. You wanted to retch knowing that it wasn’t _you_ that he was seeing in front of him. “You came back.”

You tore your gaze from him, unshed tears beginning to cloud your vision. Even now, two years after Thomas had chosen to stay in Birmingham, had chosen not to go with her, _had chosen you_ , she was still on his mind. You tried to rationalize it, telling yourself that it was the sedatives - it had to be the damn sedatives - but it didn’t make the ache hurt any less. 

Eventually, sleep had dragged him back under, and you were able to be alone with your thoughts, but that wasn’t anymore comforting. You couldn’t help but wonder if he still felt any regret about not going with her, if he still would choose you if given the same choice again, if he occasionally pretended you were her. It was those thoughts that had you sat in the dark, staring at the wall at the far end of the room, silently crying. Sleep doesn’t find you anymore that night.

You were mercifully given a brief reprieve when Major Campbell - the man that had put Grace in Thomas’s life, you realized bitterly - arrived to speak with Thomas privately. If he had noticed your red eyes and tears stained cheeks as you passed him on the way out of the room, he didn’t acknowledge it. Perhaps you merely looked like the distraught sweetheart of a man who had just been beaten. Perhaps it was better for people to assume that.

And then, like the fucking idiot he occasionally was, Thomas had discharged himself from the hospital.

“Where do you think you’re going, Thomas?” you’d asked as you trailed after him, struggling to keep up with his determined strides all while ignoring the startled looks of passersby as they took in your crumpled nightgown and blotchy face. “Thomas! Thomas, answer me!”

And in true Thomas fashion, his answer was curt and frustratingly vague. “London.”

“You’re in no condition to be out of bed, let alone go to fucking London.”

He rounded on you then and your steps faltered. “I’m going to fucking London, and that’s the end of it, Nora.”

“At least tell me why.”

He clenched his jaw, and you could only make out the barest hint of a pained wince on his features. “Alfie Solomons contacted me. I’m going to meet with him.”

You pursed your lips and nodded, acquiescing but still not pleased. “Send him my regards.” Then he was gone.

After he returned to Birmingham, a new alliance with the Jewish gang of London formed, a tentative sense of normalcy returned. He handled his business at the betting house during the day, handled business with Peaky Blinders at night, and took you to bed, greedy and wanting, most nights once the day's business had been resolved. The normalcy eased your heartache, if only a little, and you were able to mostly ignore the niggling of insecurity at the back of your mind.

But then that fucking letter had arrived.

You’d been at Thomas’s office, assisting with some accounts to keep yourself busy in the days leading up to the reopening of the Garrison, when you came across the unopened letter hidden beneath a pile of balance sheets on his desk. He’d clearly seen it, but for whatever reason he had yet to open it, and after seeing the American post stamp, it hadn’t been hard to figure out who the sender was. 

You’d sat at his desk for what felt like hours, staring at that fucking envelop, willing it to burst into flames and turn to ash. Even across a fucking ocean she was still hanging over your head like a goddamn phantom, tearing at the seams of your mind until there was nothing fucking left but the way Thomas had looked at you and whispered her name that night in the hospital.

Thomas found you that way, sitting at the chair behind his desk with your hands buried deep in your hair, nails lightly scraping at your scalp to keep you rooted in reality. You didn’t even look up from the unopened letter as he strode towards you, bending his knees and sinking down towards the ground until he was eye-level with you. 

“Hey, what’s wrong, love?” he asked softly, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. When had you even started crying? “Love, talk to me.”

Your gaze shifted to him then, life slowly returning to your numbed body. “When did you get this letter?”

“Letter?” The confusion in his voice was unmissable, just as the recognition in his eyes when he saw the letter on the desk before you was unmissable. “Where did you get this?”

“You left it on your fucking desk, Thomas. Right under all of the balance sheets you asked me to look over today.” You looked at him, face twisting with anguish. “Did you want me to find it? Did you fucking want me to see that she’s still out there, thinking about you? Like you still think about her?”

“Nora, what the fuck are you on about?” He reached forward, gripping your face between his hands and turning you to face him fully. “I chose you. Not her. You.”

Your body went slack, shoulders sagging in defeat. “You called me her name, Thomas,” you muttered weakly. “The way you looked at me when you thought I was her…” Fresh tears welled in your eyes, and Thomas was quick to catch any that escaped with a gentle swipe of his thumbs across your cheeks. “You looked at me like I was the most glorious thing you’d ever seen, and you called me her name.”

His hands fell away from your face, and he looked at the letter on his desk with a look of dumbfounded confusion, his brows knit together. He blinked, once, twice, and then looked at you with a tormented look in his already haunting eyes. “Nora,” he began.

“No,” you interrupted him with a shake of your head, relinquishing your seat at his desk. You did you best to look anywhere but at Thomas or at that fucking letter as you moved through the room, away from the source of the ache in your chest. “I... I think I need to be alone, Thomas. I need space to... to... I don’t fucking know. To think, to breath, to stop this fucking ache in my chest.”

You left him alone in his office with that stupid fucking letter and retreated to your own home, crawling beneath the blankets on your bed and staring at the wall for hours on end. He never showed up at your door that night. You didn’t show up at the office the next day. You were grateful that Thomas had actually listened to you for once, but a small part of you, the part of you that wanted to be held by him and reassured, wished he would have shown up at your door to tell you that you were being irrational, that that unopened letter - and more specifically, the sender - meant absolutely nothing to him. 

But he didn’t show up, and eventually you had gone days without seeing him.

John, sweet John - he was the one to finally drag you out of bed for the reopening of the Garrison. “A drink and good company,” he had said, “for old times’ sake”. You had smiled at him and shooed him from your room in order to change into something more suitable for the occasion, and once you finally felt ready to face the world again - (ready to face Thomas again) - you made your way towards the Garrison with him, chatting amicably about his growing family.

It hadn’t taken long for Thomas’s eyes to find yours through the crowd at the Garrison after you arrived. You ignored the immediate desire to go to him, instead mingling with others who had come for the celebration. And then Arthur arrived, looking more lively than he had in weeks, and Thomas was forgotten for just a moment longer. You’d gone to the bar to get another bottle for you and Arthur to indulge in when you saw Thomas slipping away from the crowd towards the back of the pub, where the sounds and lights of the revelry were dulled. With a last glance at Arthur to ensure he was in good hands, you grabbed the unopened bottle and followed Thomas. 

You watched with curious eyes from the edge of the room as he sat at one of the tables, taking one last drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out in the ashtray. 

“C’mere, love.” His voice startled you, unaware that he even knew you were in the room with him. He pulled one of the other chairs at the table closer to him and patted it, gesturing for you to sit before pulling the unopened letter from his suit jacket.

As always, you did as you were told.

You placed the unopened bottle of whiskey between your chairs and studied his face silently as he stared down at the letter, a longing in his haunting gaze that made you hold your breath, preparing yourself for more inevitable heartbreak. After a long moment of quiet contemplation, he finally struck a match and, hesitating only slightly, put the flame to the still unopened letter.

“Didn’t you want to know what she had to say?” you asked meekly, unable to reign in your curiosity.

He leaned back, draping an arm around the back of your chair, and watched the letter go up in flames in the ashtray. “Doesn’t matter what it said,” he answered, the flickering flames reflecting in his eyes. “I made my choice two years ago.”

“Then why…?” Why keep the letter? Why call you by her name? Why not reassure you when you had nearly shattered before his eyes?

“I don’t know,” he answered, his thumb on your shoulder kneading comforting circles into your skin. “I made my choice, Nora, and I don’t regret it.”

You recalled that night he showed up at your door, telling you that she had left. When you asked him if he would regret staying, he hadn’t lied to you, hadn’t told you what you wanted to hear. He told you the truth when he said he might eventually regret staying, regret choosing you.

But here, tonight, he hadn’t lied either.

He looked at you, really looked at you, expression giving way to the vulnerabilities he so rarely showed anyone, rarely showed you. “You know I love you, right?” You nodded, and his arm around your shoulders pulled you into him so he could press a delicate kiss to your forehead. “So why do you always doubt how I feel for you?” he whispered, lips tracing over the skin of your cheek as his mouth moved downwards, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

A hundred reasons flashed to the forefront of your mind, begging for release, to be screamed at him so that he would finally understand; because he’d made you doubt his love for you in the past; because he had a habit of ripping your heart out and stomping all over it; because he’d chosen her over you before; because he built your trust in him up only to tear it back down time and time again; because he still refused to share himself with you the way you had so willingly given all of yourself to him. 

Instead, “I don’t know.”

Two fingers beneath your chin, he tilted your head up so he could properly kiss you, pressing his lips softly to yours in a way that made your eyelids flutter shut with contentment. He pulled back slightly, lips ghosting over yours as he spoke. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered. 

You opened your eyes and met his haunting gaze. “Maybe not,” you agreed halfheartedly, eyes never leaving his and your fingers caressing his face, “but you’ve got me regardless.”

As if given a signal, he kissed you with more fervor, gripping at your hips and thighs to pull you into his lap, the burnt remains of the unopened letter in the ashtray and your gradually breaking heart temporarily forgotten as you lost yourself in his touch.


	9. act viii. alone with my ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t look too disappointed, Nora. We’ll meet again when you’re old and grey and wrinkled.” His lips down turned into a frown and his brow furrowed. “Although, living a long, happy life would be much easier to accomplish if you weren’t shacking up with a gypsy gangster, you know. Especially one like Thomas Shelby. He's not a good person, Nora.” You wanted to ask how he knew about Thomas, but the specter flicked your forehead playfully before you'd gotten the chance.

You met the new horse trainer Thomas had hired, May Carlton, soon after he had burnt the unopened letter, and, after seeing the unabashed interest in his eyes when he looked at the other woman, you couldn’t even bring yourself to be angry at him. Rather, you only felt relieved that it wasn’t the blond haired, green-eyed barmaid that had captured his attention.

May Carlton at least had the decency to look ashamed when you had walked into Thomas’s office to see her hungrily eyeing him. She at least had the decency to look you in the eye after Thomas affectionately greeted you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. She at least had the decency to introduce herself to you before a business-like façade took over her features. (She at least had the decency to pretend that her relationship with Thomas was nothing but strictly business).

You did your best to ignore the looks shared between the two of them as you rooted around Thomas’s office, searching for balance sheets that had been misplaced in the weeks since Michael had slowly taken over the account responsibilities for the family business. When you were busy, it was fairly easy to ignore the growing suspicions that Thomas’s relationship with his new horse trainer was far more than professional. It was when you were home alone, waiting for Thomas to return late in the evening that you found your thoughts wandering to the darkest of places.

Perhaps you never spoke up, never confronted him about it because, unlike after he had met Grace, he never distanced himself from you. Each morning, he kissed you good morning before leaving for work, and each night, he returned home and whisked you off to bed, touching and kissing you passionately until you came undone beneath him. (Perhaps you never spoke up, never confronted him about it because you could keep your heart from breaking so long as you didn’t know the truth. Each morning, you could revel in the fact that it was you that he always woke up beside, and each night, you took satisfaction in the fact that it was you that he always came home to).

You’d grown accustomed to waiting up for him in the months since you first met May Carlton, but eventually you’d gotten tired of waiting. Arthur, John and Michael had already made their way to the Garrison for the evening, and you tried - you really tried - to sit patiently and wait for Thomas to return from some business in London with Alfie Solomons. 

You lasted less than an hour before you abandoned your waiting post and joined the others at the pub. 

Arthur had thrown his arm around your shoulders and put a drink in your hand as soon as you arrived, John had pressed a light kiss to your cheek, and Michael greeted you with a nod. You’d sat around a table in the private parlour, chatting amicably and teasing each other, and it almost reminded you of the long nights you’d spent at the Garrison in the early days of your friendship with the Shelby family. The only difference was the two glaring absences - Ada, sat at your side and whispering in your ear about her brothers and a man called Freddie, and Thomas, sat across the room and doing his best to ignore you.

It was strange to be the only woman amongst a group of men, but you kept up with the banter, not missing a beat when John said something lewd and Arthur replied with a quip about the times he’d interrupted you and Thomas.

“Remember that time in Tommy’s office?” Arthur would ask, eyeing you with teasing eyes and a wolfish grin. He would then proceed to go into excruciating detail about what he had witnessed - you propped on Thomas’s desk with his head between your spread legs; Thomas pressing your chest to the surface of his desk, pulling your hair and biting your neck as he fucked you from behind; Thomas sat in one of the armchairs, a cigarette between his lips and his cock between yours.

And poor Michael, so new to the family but family nonetheless, struggled to look you in the eyes for the rest of the night, and every time he did his cheeks would tinge red and he’d quickly find something, anything else to look at.

Your conversation quickly devolved into teasing John about how nearly everyone in the family had walked in on him and Esme at least once in the course of their two year marriage. He didn’t look even the slightest bit embarrassed, smiling smugly and inserting his own amusing comments as the stories continued to be shared. 

Between the four of you, an entire bottle of whiskey had been emptied and a new bottle sat half-full atop the table, and just as John was pouring you another drink, your words already slurred and your vision hazy, Thomas appeared. He pecked you on the cheek and sat beside you, slinging his arm over your shoulder lazily, gesturing for John to pour him a drink as well.

“Rough day?” you’d asked once he finally relaxed into his chair and had a freshly lit cigarette between his lips. 

“Something like that.”

You furrowed your brow, studying his hard to read expression. Something was off with him, but his standoffish demeanor made you bite your tongue, letting it go. Instead, you caught him up on the topic at hand and felt a sense of satisfaction when his lips twitched up into the barest hint of a smile. “So, Thomas. Anything you’d like to contribute?”

And just like that, it was a normal - the new normal - night at the Garrison, sitting tucked into Thomas’s side, John and Arthur saying absurd things to get a laugh out of the others, and Michael observing his family with keen interest, his eyes settling on you every now and then when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

“Michael’s been staring at you,” Thomas whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I think the boy fancies himself in love with you.”

You lifted your gaze from your drink and surreptitiously glanced at Michael. As Thomas had said, the boy was staring at you from the corner of his eyes while feigning interest in John and Arthur’s conversation. Amused, you looked at Thomas and shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m a little too old for him, though.”

Thomas raised a brow. “Too old? You’re hardly four years older than he is. By that logic, I’m far too old for you.” 

“No,” you countered, “I just prefer finely aged men.”

He smiled then - a full smile, dimples and all - and your heart fluttered in your chest. “Finely aged?” he laughed. “Now you’re making me sound old.”

“Not old,” you reassured. “You’re just…” You trailed off, eyeing him up and down as you searched for the right word. Finally, you slurred, “Experienced.”

“Is that right?” he teased, and your skin grew hot under his gaze.

“Oy,” Arthur barked, catching yours and Thomas’s attention. “D’you need us to leave or would you prefer it if we stayed to watch you fuck each other?”

You snorted with laughter, ignoring the uncomfortable tingling sensation beneath your skin. “Do you enjoy watching, Arthur?” you teased good-naturedly. “Is that why you’ve made a habit of entering Thomas’s office uninvited when I’m there? If that’s the case, I’m sure Thomas would be more than happy to bend me over this very table.”

Michael choked on his drink, eyes wide.

“Alright, I think you've had enough to drink tonight, love,” Thomas declared, removing your nearly full glass from your hands and pushing the bottle across the table, out of your reach. “Let’s get you home while you can still stand.”

You said your goodbyes, promising to see everyone in the morning. Arm in arm with Thomas, you began your walk home, enjoying the quietness of the night and doing your best to ignore the spots in your vision and the increasing heat beneath your skin. It was manageable for a time, until your legs grew weak, making each step more and more labored. 

“Nora?” Thomas called your name, noticing that you had slowed your pace. “Is everything okay? Tell me what you need, love.”

“Thomas, I think I need...I think...I don’t feel right, Thomas,” you slurred, body aflame and your skin clammy, exhaustion and aches seeping into your muscles and bones. You stumbled, tripping over your own suddenly heavy feet, and careened towards the cobbled streets. A flash of white appeared in your vision, and then you were consumed by darkness.

When you woke during the first night, the first thing you took notice of was the unfamiliar room and the overwhelming sterile scent. A hospital, then. You did your best to sit up, to get a better look at your surroundings, but a gentle hand against your shoulder forced your back against the mattress.

“Thomas?” you croaked, voice hoarse.

“No, dear,” Polly whispered from your bedside. “He had some business to take care of, but he’ll be here in the morning.” You didn’t miss the wavering in her voice, the unmistakable uncertainty that he would actually be there. “Sleep. You need to rest.” And it was as if Polly had cast a spell on you, forcing your eyelids to flutter shut and the darkness to overwhelm you again.

When you woke during the second night, you were alone. Your mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton, your limbs felt heavy from whatever drugs they had forced into your system to battle the raging fever inside of you, and your vision was cloudy and spinning.

You blinked, and a specter appeared before you. Your mother, you realized, taking in her dark eyes and soft features. You knew she wasn’t there, that she couldn’t be there - she was buried in an old cemetery behind the Catholic Church you had attended when you were little, two miles from where you used to live in America - but when the specter reached out, gently pressing her palm to your face, you swore you could actually feel her cold touch against your burning cheek.

“My sweet girl,” the specter with your mother’s face cooed. “My sweet, sweet Eleanora.” The specter’s eyes grew sad then, whispering soothing words to you in a language you hadn’t dared to use since the day your mother died.

(In the back of your mind, a familiar voice taunted, “Too sweet, too innocent”).

You blinked and she was gone, replaced by a larger figure with red cheeks and a round face. Uncle George. He smiled at you, so eerily similar to his smiles when he had lived, and you wondered if perhaps you had died - was this your ghosts beckoning you to the afterlife?

You tried to speak, but no words would come.

“I had warned you not to get involved with the Shelby brothers, Nora,” he tsked as he looked down at you with sympathetic eyes. “Had warned you that nothing good would come of it, that you’d only end up hurt. And now look at you. Your heartbreak will slowly kill you, my girl. It’s not so different than cancer in that respect.”

You blinked and he was gone.

For a moment, your ghosts allowed you peace, silence, but then the silence was shattered as a new specter appeared.

He looked just as you remembered him, eyes shining with mischief and hair tousled boyishly. He looked just as he did the last day you saw him, and the sudden realization that you were nearly as old as he had been when he took his own life made your heart ache. “Ben,” you breathed.

“Hello, little sister.” He smiled at you softly, inquisitive eyes taking in your current predicament. “You look like shit.”

You laughed then, wincing in pain from the bone deep ache in your body. “Why are you here?” The question of how went unasked.

“I’m not,” he answered easily. “Not really. Your mind’s a little fucked up from the drugs, little sister. Opium is a hell of a beast.”

At hearing his words, your mind conjured up the memory of the last time you’d been in a hospital, sat at Thomas’s bedside as he had called you by another name. “I see.”

“Don’t look too disappointed, Nora. We’ll meet again when you’re old and grey and wrinkled.” His lips down turned into a frown and his brow furrowed. “Although, living a long, happy life would be much easier to accomplish if you weren’t shacking up with a gypsy gangster, you know. Especially one like Thomas Shelby. He's not a good person, Nora.” You wanted to ask how he knew about Thomas, but the specter flicked your forehead playfully before you'd gotten the chance. “You used to be so clever, little sister. I know you know that you deserve better, so why stay with him and let him continue to break your heart, to change who you are, to mold you into his idea of who you should be?”

With zero hesitation, you answered, “I love him, Ben.”

He smiled sadly at you, his brown eyes - your mother's eyes - full of the same sorrow you’d only barely recognized before he’d gone to an early grave. “I know, little sister. I know.” He sighed, sadness seeping into his voice. “I just hope you’ll learn to save yourself before it’s too late. I didn’t.”

“Ben,” you whispered, the creeping feeling of agony that had bloomed so painfully in your chest after he had died slowly returning.

“It’s okay, little sister.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his touch just as cold as your mother’s had been. “You should rest now.”

“Don’t leave me, Ben.”

“Never.”

You blinked and he was gone.

When you woke during the third night, it wasn’t a specter or Polly who greeted you. “Hello, lovely girl.” You felt flattered, knowing that you most certainly looked anything but lovely, your skin pale and clammy and your hair drenched with sweat. His touch felt soothing against the still warm skin of your face. “How are you feeling?” Thomas asked, concern clear in his haunting eyes.

You swallowed and assured, “Better.”

“That’s good. Gave me a bit of a scare,” he admitted. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the clammy skin of your forehead, and you caught the distinct smell of a woman’s perfume clinging to his skin.

Your gaze turned steely then, and your jaw set tightly. You took a shaky breath, remembering what your brother - or the specter from your drug-fueled imaginations that looked like, sounded like your brother - had said to you.

“What’s wrong, love?”

You forced down your rising melancholy, faking a smile with practiced ease. “It’s nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a fan of this installment but it is what it is.
> 
> there are two more parts to follow this and then at least two interludes (which are already written) before we move onto the events of 1924.


	10. act ix. a piece of you and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m glad Tommy suggested we spend the weekend together,” Ada said. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to just sit around, chatting and enjoying a drink.” She smiled and cast a sideways glance at your cup of tea before adding, “Even the non-alcoholic kind.”
> 
> You didn’t return her smile, head spinning as you tried to comprehend what she had just told you. “Thomas told me that you had suggested I come to London.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i originally posted part ix last night, but i wasn't happy with the sequence of events and removed it. this new version is better, but still not my best work. as always, chapter is unedited.

You spent nearly two weeks in the hospital before you had been discharged following your brief illness. Thomas had been there that morning, prepared to take you home and ensure that you continued to rest, and he listened intently as the doctor explained the root cause of your illness - exhaustion and not taking care of yourself as you should have been had led to a fever that silently crept into your system, igniting your body from the inside and draining the last of your energy until your body simply couldn’t hand it any longer. In any case, you had been lucky that it was anything more severe.

After being discharged, you had spent another week resting at home. You’d felt restless, useless during that week, wanting nothing more than to review balance sheets and review product orders for the Garrison, but Thomas wouldn’t budge. No exceptions, he had said. Instead, he had left with your well-loved books and a kiss on your forehead each morning, stopping in throughout the day when he had time to check on you between meetings and other business. 

And then, one morning you woke up to a sight that had you both overjoyed and irate and simply unable to stay away from the office any longer.

You strode through the betting house with determined steps, resolve unwavering. Lizzie did her best to attempt to stop you before you forced your way into Thomas’s office, interrupting a meeting between him and Polly, but there was no force in the world that could stop you from confronting Thomas that morning. You could see the annoyance on Thomas’s face when he looked up from the documents strewn across his desk to see you, arms crossed over your chest and face tight with anger. 

“Nora, love, what have I told you about interrupting me during business meetings?”

“Oh, shove it up your ass, Thomas,” you snapped, digging in your purse as you approached his desk. You fished out the small piece of jewelry you had found lying on the bedside table when you woke up that morning, Thomas already dressed and gone for the day. You slammed it on the table, the thud of it loud despite the noise coming from beyond the open doors of his office. “What the fuck is this?”

He glanced down at the ring you’d placed in front of him as Lizzie stammered her apologies, relaxing into his chair and folding his hands together atop his desk. His expression was blank, but you knew him well enough to see the concealed amusement dancing in his haunting eyes. “What does it look like? You’re clever enough to figure it out.”

“Thomas Shelby, if you think this is an engagement ring, you’re sorely mistaken.” Polly’s brows shot up with interest, her mouth curling into a pleased smirk. “I won’t accept. I don’t care who you are. You could be the fucking king, for all I care. I’m not accepting unless you ask me properly.”

Polly stood and gathered the documents from the desk. “I’ll leave you two to sort this out.” She looked back at Thomas. “We can table this discussion for now and continue it-” she glanced at you briefly, “-tomorrow would probably be best.” She squeezed your arm in gentle encouragement as she passed you on her way out of the office.

You stared at Thomas, irritation at him clear in your gaze, until the door to his office clicked shut. He stared back, unflinching under your stare. “Well,” you urged. “Fucking say something.”

Instead of speaking, he sighed deeply and stood, pinching the dainty ring between his fingers. Your eyes followed him closely as he walked around the desk, dropping down to one knee in front of you. “Is this what you want? Me down on one knee, asking you properly?”

“Asking me in the middle of your office is not asking me properly, Thomas.”

He looked at you with a playful glint in his eyes, tilting his head slightly. “Alright, properly then.”

And that was the end of it. 

The following week you were finally allowed to return to work for a few hours each day, flitting about the office in an attempt to catch up on all the work that had been temporarily forgotten during your recovery and during Michael’s imprisonment. Thomas always watched you out of the corner of his eye like you would suddenly crumple from exhaustion if he looked away for even a moment. It was both endearing and incredibly frustrating. You had tucked the endeared feeling away, deep into your heart, intent to hold onto it. The frustration, however, had led you to snapping after nearly two months of Thomas’s mother hen act.

You’d finally cracked during an evening at the Garrison. After finishing up your responsibilities in the office, you’d gone to the pub with John, Arthur’s and Michael’s absence hanging over your heads as you sat in your usual spot and shared your usual bottle of whiskey. The sun had set and the crowd in the pub had grown larger, louder. It had been so long since you allowed yourself to just spend an evening at the Garrison with a drink and good company, and you delighted in the excitement of finally returning to normalcy. 

But then Thomas and Polly arrived, arguing and initially taking no notice of your presence. You and John paid them no mind, continuing with your conversation after a brief pause to try to overhear whatever it was the Thomas and Polly had been arguing about. Then Thomas took the seat beside you and the normalcy was shattered and your frustration was too overwhelming to reign in.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” he commented, reaching for the glass in your hand. You pulled it out of his reach, and he looked at you with exasperation. “You need your rest.”

“I’ve been resting for the past three months, Thomas,” you snapped. “I’m fucking done resting!”

“Don’t be a child, Nora,” he chided, voice slightly raised in annoyance. “You were discharged with instructions to rest.”

“Three months! Three fucking months ago!” you shouted. “I’m not a damn invalid, Thomas! Stop acting like I am.”

A hand was on your breast then, and it didn’t belong to Thomas. You turned to see Polly eyeing your chest with a curious expression on her face. “Uh, Pol. Can I help you?” You turned to Thomas for answers, but his gaze was firmly trained on Polly’s groping hand, a look of recognition and astonishment in his haunting eyes. 

“You’re not an invalid,” she finally said, removing her hand from your breast. “But you are pregnant.”

“What?” you muttered, hands instantly pressing against your still flat stomach. You looked to Thomas, eyes wide with confusion. It wasn’t like you had been actively trying to prevent pregnancy, but you hadn’t been actively trying to get pregnant either. Besides, your monthly had stopped coming after you lost the little life inside of you two over years ago, and you had just assumed that motherhood wasn’t in the cards for you. “Thomas.”

He snapped out of his trance, eyes meeting yours briefly. “Pregnant?” His eyes turned to Polly. “Pol, you’re sure?”

She settled into a seat at the table, and John lit her cigarette as she answered, “I haven’t been wrong before, have I?”

“Pregnant,” you repeated in a whisper, your teary eyed gaze latching onto Thomas. “A baby, Thomas.”

He surged forward and captured your lips with his as his hand sunk into your hair, cradling your head tenderly. When he finally pulled away, still holding you with an arm around your waist, he wiped your stray tears from your cheeks. “Why are you crying, love?”

“A baby, Thomas,” you breathed, awe clear in your voice. “I didn’t think...It had been so long. We weren’t doing anything to prevent a baby for so long, but it just never happened so I assumed that...I didn’t think I’d ever get to be a mother. Not after...after...”

"It's okay, love," he soothed. "It's okay. It's in the past now."

“A baby, Thomas,” you repeated, laughing as a grin spreading across your face.

He smiled at you, fingertips ghosting over your hairline as he pushed your hair away from your face. “You’ll be a wonderful mother, Nora.”

“Take me home, Thomas?” Before, you had been ready to fight him over his insistence that you go home a rest, but now, all you wanted was to go home and be alone with Thomas.

“Gladly.”

“‘Bout fuckin’ time,” John joked with a lopsided grin. “Enjoy it time while you still can.”

You let Thomas lead you home, hand in hand and his strides longer than normal. You kept up with him eagerly, impatient to get home. The moment you had closed the front door behind you, his hands were on your body, trailing a burning path across each bit of newly exposed skin as he stripped you of your clothes. He’d carried you to bed once you were completely naked, laying you on the mattress before he stripped out of his clothes under your hungry gaze.

He lavished you with affection that evening, his hands ghosting over your stomach often as if magnetized by it. Your breath caught in your throat when he trailed kisses down your throat and chest and stomach - pausing briefly to murmur his love for you against the skin of your stomach - nipping at your thighs before pressing his tongue between your thighs. You cried his name as he pushed you over that glorious edge no less than three times before he finally sheathed himself inside of you, caging your head between his arms and pressing kisses to your face and neck as he moved above you, urging you closer and closer to the edge once again. 

“Marry me,” he breathed against your neck as you arched up into him.

You attempted to catch your breath, startled by his sudden question. “Did you just...ask me to marry you mid-fuck?” Your face contorted in confusion, blinking. “What happened to asking me properly?”

He shrugged against you, his pace slowing slightly as his hips settled into a languid rhythm. “Felt right.”

Whether it was the abject happiness you felt in that moment or the incessant need to please the man above you, you threw away your ideals of a proper proposal. “Okay,” you whispered against his skin, vision swimming in ecstasy. “I’ll marry you, Thomas Shelby.”

You slept curled into Thomas’s side that night, with his hand cradling the still flat surface of your stomach protectively.

The following weekend, you’d gone to London to spend with Ada and Karl at Thomas’s urging, having been told that Ada had requested a weekend to celebrate your recent engagement to her brother and your newly announced pregnancy. Truthfully, you had missed her company since she and Karl moved to the larger city, so you went without question. (Looking back on it, you should have questioned him). So you kissed Thomas goodbye on Friday morning and made the trip to London.

Friday afternoon, Ada had taken you shopping, wandering through shop after shop, sifting through an assortment of different clothing products. Your cheeks colored with a furious blush when she had pulled a scandalous piece of lingerie off of a rack, brows shooting up towards her hairline as she looked at you with a suggestive look in her eyes. Tears welled in your eyes when she pulled tiny baby booties from a shelf, an understanding expression on her face as you marveled at the small - so, so small - size of them. Your heart fluttered in your chest after she pulled a gorgeous (and rather expensive) wedding gown from a rack, making a quip that Thomas Shelby would pay any price to see his bride happy. 

In the end, you’d returned to Ada with more bags than you alone could carry, and some orders had to be placed for later delivery to your home in Birmingham. Most of the bags were baby clothes and products that Ada had insisted you would absolutely need, but there were a few bags filled with lace and satin that you knew Thomas would be especially eager to see you wear while your stomach was still relatively flat. 

You’d gone to dinner, eating an overly posh establishment that Ada supposedly frequented, and afterwards you had both agreed that you were too exhausted from the afternoon’s extensive shopping outing to go out later that night. Instead, you had delayed your plans of going to various jazz clubs in the city until the next evening and curled up on the sofa with Ada after Karl had been put to bed for the evening. 

“Whiskey?” she offered, her slippered feet making very little noise as she shuffled across the room to her liquor cabinet. “I’ve got gin as well if you’d prefer that.”

You shook your head, hand resting gently against your stomach. “No thank you. I’ve read about recent studies saying that liquor may be bad for the baby.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. “I drank while I was pregnant with Karl and never had any issues.”

“It’s all speculative, but I’d prefer not to take any risks after…” you trailed off, thinking back to the little life you lost over two years ago. “I just want to make sure nothing goes wrong this time.”

Ada’s expression softened, and she silently put away the second glass that she had intended to fill for you. “Would you like tea then? Is that okay for the baby?”

You were touched by her concern and her willingness to so readily accommodate you. You smiled at her warmly and answered, “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

And so you sat together on the sofa, Ada sipping on her gin and you sipping on your tea, chatting about everything that had happened in London and Birmingham, respectively, since Ada had moved into the home Thomas bought for her. 

“I’m glad Tommy suggested we spend the weekend together,” Ada said. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to just sit around, chatting and enjoying a drink.” She smiled and cast a sideways glance at your cup of tea before adding, “Even the non-alcoholic kind.”

You didn’t return her smile, head spinning as you tried to comprehend what she had just told you. “Thomas told me that you had suggested I come to London.”

Ada furrowed her brows in confusion. “No,” she drawled. “He called me up earlier this week and told me you’d be coming to London so we could have a girl’s weekend.”

You averted your gaze, staring at the floor as you tried to sort through your thoughts. Why would he lie to you about something as simple as a trip to London? The memory of Thomas at your beside, smelling of another woman's perfume, taunted you.

Ada, picking up on your distress, placed a comforting hand over yours. “I’m sure it was for a good reason. Now that you’re expecting he probably wanted you out of the city if something... _ business-related _ made him concerned for your safety.”

“Do you believe that?” you asked her, unable to believe it yourself. You wanted validation, to know that you weren’t the only one thinking the worst of Thomas’s intentions for setting up this weekend for you and his sister. 

She sighed and looked you in the eyes as she admitted, “No. I wish I did. I wish I could say that my brother wouldn’t do that, but I can’t.”

You closed your eyes, fighting back the tears that were slowly gathering in your eyes. _Save yourself_ , your brother's voice echoed in the back of your mind, _before it's too late_. Your hand settled over your stomach, the barely noticeable swell of it reminding you of the new life that was growing inside of you, that you were now responsible for. It wasn't about what was best for you anymore.  (Truthfully, it never had been. It had always been Thomas, Thomas, Thomas). 

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Ada,” you finally whispered, fearful of admitting such a thing to Thomas’s sister. 

Your fears were alleviated when Ada squeezed your hand. “No matter what happens, no matter what you choose...I’ll be here for you. You’re family, Nora, no matter what.”

You smiled at her, touched at the sentiment behind her words, but your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore.


	11. act x. i’ll take my love and leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long silence stretched between the two of you, neither of you knowing quite what to say to the other. You could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall and the sounds of your own fidgeting, you could see him picking your discarded ring off of the desk and inspecting it with a forlorn expression on his face, and you could feel the thick tension of the situation hanging between you and Thomas like a dark cloud that refused to let any sunlight through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited, as always

It was Major Campbell of all fucking people that told you what had really happened the weekend you’d spent in London with Ada, told you the real reason behind Thomas urging you to go. The older man looked bewildered when you laughed at him and thanked him, clearly expecting a very different response to telling you your fiancé had lied once again, had gone to see that woman once again. You turned on your heel and wordlessly walked in the other direction instead of giving him the satisfaction of watching the revelation break you. (Because for whatever reason he must have assumed that hurting you would hurt Thomas. If that were the case, maybe you would have been spared from the ache in your chest that had only grown in the weeks since you’d returned from your weekend in London with Ada).

You had wanted to find Thomas, to rage at him and scream at him and say anything that would hurt him the way that he never failed to hurt you. Instead, you played the role of perfect little, ignorant wife-to-be, pretending to happily enjoy your day at the track while the men did whatever the fuck it was Thomas had instructed them to do. (You supposed a part of you should have been happy that Thomas even allowed you to join him at the track, knowing that he would have left you behind if it hadn’t been for Polly’s intervention).

You’d known something was off, that Epsom held a greater importance than simply being where Thomas’s latest horse would race, but you ignored the nagging feeling at the back of your mind that something wasn’t right. Thomas had made you promise to remain in large groups of people while he was away from your side, made you promise that you wouldn’t go off on your own, made you promise that you would stay away from the Italians.

As always, you did as you were told.

The only time you had found yourself on your own was after the race had concluded. You stood waiting for Thomas, growing increasingly anxious as time passed with no sign from him. And if waiting for Thomas hadn’t been stress-inducing enough, the blond haired, green-eyed barmaid - that until just this morning you had thought was across an ocean, was in America - sidled up next to you. 

“Waiting for Tommy?” she asked. 

You blinked in confusion, looking at her with raised brows. It was the first time she had ever spoken to you directly, and you certainly never thought you’d ever be in the same room as her again after she left England nearly three years ago. “It would appear that way, yes.” 

“I’m leaving my husband for him,” she informed you.

“Good for you,” you replied sarcastically. Your hands brushed over your slightly swollen stomach, drawing her attention to the action. “Am I supposed to wish you nothing but happiness? Is that what you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“No,” you huffed. “Just my fiancé and the father of my child. Do you want to add anything else to the list while we’re at it?” You turned to look at her then, eyes dancing with anger. “At least she-” You nodded across the way at May Carlton. “-has the decency to at least pretend she hasn’t been fucking Thomas.”

She looked away, shamefaced, before telling you, “He loves me.”

“And you believe him? He claims to love me, too. So which of us is he lying to?” you question. You took a deep breath, not wanting to humor her any further. “If you see Thomas, tell him I’ve gone home.” Turning on your heel, you walked away from her, praying you’d never have to see her again.

The entire drive home, you were silent. The others tried to include you in the conversation, tried to get a laugh out of you, but your attention remained firmly on the passing landscape as you were stuck in your thoughts, trying to work through all of the information that you had learned in the course of the day - the barmaid was back in England, Thomas had been fucking her behind your back (for how long, you didn’t know), and no one seemed to know where Thomas had gone after the race. You surreptitiously wiped at your stray tears, not wanting the others to see the state you were in.

You waited for him at his office, knowing that after a day of business he would inevitably stop there before going home for the evening. You settled into one of the armchairs, fiddling with the suddenly heavy ring on your finger nervously. What would you even say to him? Hadn’t you been through this before? Nothing had changed then, and you were skeptical that anything would change this time.

You heard a door slam in the other room and prepared yourself. At first, Thomas hadn’t even noticed you when he stormed into his office. It had taken him a moment to finally acknowledge you after tossing his coat carelessly over the back of the other armchair. He paused in his path, eyes widened almost imperceptibly when he saw you, before continuing to the chair behind his desk.

“What are you doing here, Nora?” he asked as he settled into his chair and poured himself a drink from one of the many bottles he kept stocked in his office. “You should be at home.”

“The same could be said for you, Thomas,” you retorted. “Where were you today after the race? No one could find you anywhere.”

“I had some business to take care of,” he answered vaguely.

Your lips pursed and you sighed. “Of course.” You paused, unsure of how to proceed. The last time you had confronted him like this had been at John’s wedding a few years ago, and that confrontation had ended in Thomas fucking you against a vardo in an effort to ignore the conversation altogether. 

Sensing you had more to say, Thomas said, “Well, out with it, love.”

You bit your lips, still so unsure of yourself. “I know about the other women, Thomas,” you finally said, your blunt words catching Thomas off guard. “I think deep down I had always known and just wanted to ignore it, just pretend to be happy for a little longer...but today only confirmed it. Do you want to know how I found out?” You watched him, waiting for a response, but the only reaction you got from him was the barest hint of his jaw tensing. “Major fucking Campbell told me about the weekend I was in London. I know he’s had it out for you for years, so I took everything he said with a grain of salt. You probably would have been able to convince me that he was lying to me, but then the barmaid thought it necessary to approach me after the race and tell me that she was leaving her husband for you. Did you know that, Thomas?”

He was silent for moment, gaze averted. Finally, “She spoke to you?”

You nodded, swallowing thickly. “She did.” You met his haunting gaze, doing your best to hold on to the little courage you had. “Why, Thomas? Why couldn’t you let us be happy?”

“We are happy.”

You snorted, smiling ruefully. “Are we? Because if we were truly happy, you wouldn’t be fucking other women, Thomas! You lied to me about the trip to London! You lied to me so you could see her! So you could fuck her, right?” You stood, beginning to pace his office as you interrogated him. “Why would she leave her husband for you, Thomas? Why would she leave her husband for a man that’s already engaged, for a man that’s about to become a father?”

Your steps faltered and your hands curled over your stomach protectively, beginning to shake as a nauseating thought pervaded your mind. “Is she pregnant?” you asked, spinning on your heel to face him again. “Is she fucking pregnant, Thomas? Is she? Tell me the fucking truth, Thomas!”

“She’s barren!” he snapped, his haunting gaze burning with anger.

“And that suddenly makes being unfaithful acceptable?” you shouted back at him, chest heaving. “What about May Carlton, Thomas? Is she barren, too?”

“We’re not discussing this, Nora,” Thomas warned, his expression unreadable.

“Like hell we’re not!” you shouted at him, thankful that it was only you and him in the office at this hour. “I’m done constantly being hurt by you, Thomas. I’m done standing by when you come home smelling of another woman’s perfume. I’m done being a fucking afterthought to you.” You lowered your voice, finally realizing what you needed to do, what you should have done long ago. “I’m done.” You pulled at the ring on your finger, twisting it off. After a brief hesitation, you set it gently on the desk in front of Thomas and repeated, “I’m done.”

“Nora,” he began, his calm façade fading with each second. “Put the ring back on.”

“I’m done, Thomas,” you repeated coolly.

“Put the fuckin’ ring back on, Nora!”

You held your ground, arms crossed over your chest. “No. I refuse.” You leaned over the desk, bracing yourself on its surface as you stared into his haunting eyes. “I refuse to wear a ring that means absolutely fucking nothing to you. I refuse to wear a ring that you don’t respect, that you miraculously forget about when you’re out fucking other women behind my back. I refuse to wear a ring that is only going to make me miserable every goddamn time I look at it and wonder where you are, why you haven’t come home.”

“Put it back on, Nora. I won’t ask again.”

“Good,” you stated. “Because I won’t put it back on no matter how many times you order me to. I’m not one of your fucking men to be ordered around, Thomas.”

He stood, eyes narrowed and filled with rage that was so rarely directed at you. “Put the fuckin’ ring back on.”

“I thought you weren’t going to ask again,” you commented sardonically. You slid the ring further across the desk towards him. “Take it. Give it to one of the women you were fucking behind my back if you’re so desperate to have a wife.”

“You’re supposed to be my wife. Not Grace, not May. You.”

You swallowed and inhaled a shaky breath. “You should have thought of that before you fucked them, then.” You stepped away from him as he sunk back down into his chair, his haunting eyes glazed over with anguish. “I’ve already called Ada. She’s expecting me in a few hours.”

“You’re going to London?”

“Yes,” you admitted.

“How long will you be gone?”

You hesitated before answering, "I don't know, Thomas. Ada is only expecting me for a few weeks at most, but I just...It may be longer. I need space, Thomas. I can't stay here anymore."

“You’re pregnant with my child, Nora! You’re not just going to leave Birmingham, leave me!”

“I am, actually,” you informed him. “And I’m going to stay in London for as long as I need to.”

“You’re pregnant with my child!” he roared. “My child!”

“How astute of you to notice,” you mocked. You deflated slightly then, hanging your head. “You know, I had hoped that becoming a father, becoming a husband would suddenly change you into a better man. I had hoped that becoming your wife, the mother of your child would finally earn your respect - that you would finally show me even the slightest bit of decency and be faithful to me.” You lowered your voice to a whisper and met his gaze, murmuring, “I should’ve known better.”

A long silence stretched between the two of you, neither of you knowing quite what to say to the other. You could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall and the sounds of your own fidgeting, you could see him picking your discarded ring off of the desk and inspecting it with a forlorn expression on his face, and you could feel the thick tension of the situation hanging between you and Thomas like a dark cloud that refused to let any sunlight through. 

And yet, you finally felt liberated.

“I'm not cruel. I won’t try to keep you away from your child,” you reassured him softly. “But I can’t do this anymore, Thomas. I can’t keep pretending to be ignorant to all of the ways you’ve hurt me. I can’t.” 

“So this is it then?” he asked dejectedly, the ring now firmly enclosed within his palm. His haunting eyes lifted to meet yours, and your resolve nearly crumbled. “This is what you want?”

You smiled at him sadly, eyes stinging and swollen from unshed tears and throat tightening uncomfortably. “No, Thomas,” you croaked. You could see the confusion in his eyes at your answer, but you continued before he could try to convince you to stay. “I think it’s what I need, though. All I ever wanted was for you to love me the way I loved you. I’m starting to think you never will.”

He stood then, reaching for you, but you retreated from him, unsure that you’d follow through with your plan to leave if he held you, even if it was only for a moment. “Nora, please. Talk to me.”

You shook your head and swiped at a stray tear. “We’re past talking, Thomas, and you know it.” You took one last look at him after grabbing your purse and coat from the rack, drinking in the features of a face that you had committed to memory so long ago. “Goodbye, Thomas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> interlude ii is ready and will be posted shortly with interlude iii to follow hopefully sometime tomorrow


	12. interlude ii. my heart is yours (if you want it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside the house, he was on autopilot, climbing the stairs and rushing down the hallway towards your bedroom. He froze when he stepped inside, setting his eyes on you for the first time in so fucking long. And even with your swollen stomach, your sweat-soaked hair and the light sheen of sweat that had covered your nearly naked body, he thought you were so fucking devastatingly beautiful. 

Tommy followed you to London the night you left. 

The entire drive south, he had tried to think of what he would say to you, how he would convince you to come back home, to come back to him. Nothing that he thought of seemed sufficient enough. He didn’t even make it to Ada’s front door before turning on his heel and driving all the way back to Birmingham.

He had locked himself in his office that night, with a fresh pack of cigarettes and an unopened bottle of whiskey. (Polly found him asleep at his desk the next morning, the entire pack of cigarettes smoked and the unopened bottle of whiskey nothing but a pool of amber liquid and shattered glass on the floor).

One week after you left, he returned to London. 

That time, he had made it to the door. That time, his thoughts were sorted and he had prepared what he wanted to say to you, but Ada had been quick to turn him away. “She doesn’t want to see you, Tommy,” she had said before closing the door in his face.

He had locked himself in his office that night, with nothing but your discarded engagement ring and his unyielding guilt to keep him company. (Lizzie found him asleep at his desk the next morning, head pillowed atop his folded arms and the ring still clutched in his hand).

Seven weeks after you left, he returned to London. 

He hadn’t let Ada shut the door on him that time, pushing his way through the door and into the foyer. He saw evidence of you all over the house - your favorite book on the mantle above the fireplace, the fur coat he had bought you during your first trip to London tossed haphazardly over the coat rack, an unopened bottle of your preferred whiskey stocked on Ada’s liquor shelf - and a pang of longing shot through his body.

“She’s not here, Tommy,” Ada told him, trying to prevent him from climbing the stairs to the second level.

“Where is she then?”

His sister shrugged and refused to meet his gaze. “Out.”

He wordlessly forced his way past her, and within seconds he was standing outside the bedroom he knew you had taken up residence in. He could hear movement from beyond the closed door, could see shadows dancing beneath the gap between the door and the floorboards, and he ached to reach out, to open the door and take you in his arms and hold you and never let you go.

But Ada’s hand at his elbow stopped him. “Just leave her be, Tommy,” she urged. “You can’t force her to go home until she’s ready.”

He hadn’t returned to Birmingham that night. Instead, he sat on the floor of Ada’s hallway, his back pressed against your door, listening to the soft sighs you made in your sleep as they drifted through the door. (Ada found him asleep early the next morning, still sat outside your door, and ushered him from her house before you could wake and find him there).

Fifteen weeks after you left, he returned to London. 

Instead of going to Ada’s, he tried his best to go about his business, meeting Alfie Solomons at his bakery in Camden Town. He’d gladly taken the glass of whiskey that Alfie had offered him, hoping that it would take his mind off of you if even only for a moment.

Alfie quickly put an end to that when he brought you up, offhandedly mentioning, “Saw your almost missus the other day, right. Didn’t realize she was up the duff. I s’pose congratulations are in order.”

Tommy drank deeply from his glass, emptying it all at once.

“Why the long face, mate? Trouble in paradise?” The Jew had asked his questions with a taunting undertone in his voice, telling Tommy he knew far more than he was letting on. “Noticed she wasn’t wearin’ that sparkler you’d given ‘er.”

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business, Alfie.” Tommy refilled his glass, setting the bottle back down on the desk more forcefully than he had intended. “She’s just takin’ a break from Birmingham, that’s all.”

“Y’see, that’s not what I heard. I heard that she’s takin’ a break from you, Tommy. Also heard you were bein’ a cunt, so it’s understandable, innit?”

Tommy stood abruptly, his chair clattering against the floor where it fell over, and grabbed the other man by the collar of his shirt. “Stay the fuck away from her, Alfie,” he warned through gritted teeth. 

“Well that’s gonna be a bit harder than you think, mate. Y’see, I’d heard through one of my associates that she used to handle some accounts for your business, and, being the generous man that I am, I offered her employment at my bakery for the duration of her stay in London.” Alfie pried Tommy’s hand from him then, putting some space between the two men. “I, for one, am looking forward to a woman’s touch around the office. She makes for a much prettier sight than Ollie, yeah.”

“If you touch a single fuckin’ hair on her head, I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Tommy threatened, his eyes wide and his jaw tight with anger.

“It’s not her head that you need to worry about bein’ touched, mate,'' Alfie taunted lewdly, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes, before returning to his seat and sorting through the documents on his desk. “Now, sit down, Tommy. We’ve business to discuss.”

He’d gone to Ada’s against his better judgment that night after he’d concluded his business with Alfie, and he watched your shadow dance about the drapes that covered the window into your bedroom, unable to approach the door. (You found him asleep in his car the next morning, but you wordlessly walked away, unable to gather the courage to speak to him just yet).

Twenty-four weeks after you left, he returned to London.

He’d been doing his best to stay away, to give you your space - and for the most part he was succeeding - but the nearer and nearer you got to the end of your pregnancy, the more restless he became.

He spent increasing time in his office, reading and rereading the documents regarding the most recent acquisitions, too distracted by his thoughts to concentrate on the words on the page.

Lizzie had already gone home for the evening, the betting house was quiet and cloaked in darkness save for the dim light from his office, and Tommy had only just poured himself a drink when Polly abruptly appeared, grabbing his coat from the rack and holding out to him. 

“C’mon, Tommy” she prompted. “We need to get you to London.”

“What is it, Pol?”

“Ada’s called. Nora’s gone into labor,” she informed him. “The midwife is with her now, but with any luck we can get you there before your child comes into the world.”

His body moved on its own accord then, taking his coat from Polly and shrugging it on before his feet carried him through the betting house and onto the street. His hands were trembling as he tried to start the engine of his car, and Polly was quick to pull the keys from his hand and force him from his seat, taking up his spot behind the wheel. 

Time moved in slow motion then, the drive to London feeling hours longer than it truly was, and by the time Polly had parked the car in front of Ada’s house, he had gone through six cigarettes in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Inside the house, he was on autopilot, climbing the stairs and rushing down the hallway towards your bedroom. He froze when he stepped inside, setting his eyes on you for the first time in so fucking long. And even with your swollen stomach, your sweat-soaked hair and the light sheen of sweat that had covered your nearly naked body, he thought you were so fucking devastatingly beautiful. 

“Thought you said childbirth was women’s work?” Ada questioned him abrasively as he entered.

“Quiet, Ada,” Polly scolded as she went to assist the midwife, gripping the underside of your knee and pulling your legs into a better position..

“Thomas,” you breathed once you finally saw him, and in a moment he was beside you, one hand brushing your hair back and away from your face while the other gripped your hand tightly. “You’re here.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, finally feeling at ease after so many months of not seeing you. “‘Course I’m here, love.”

His long overdue reunion with you was interrupted when the midwife had ordered you to push, and a scream more terrifying than any of his nightmares erupted from you. You gripped his hand tighter and clenched your teeth through the pain. A single sob tore through you then, and his brow wrinkled with worry as his eyes searched your face, seeking a way to alleviate your discomfort.

“She’s been pushing for hours,” Ada informed him from the other side of the bed, her brows knit together in concern.

To his right, the midwife moved, catching his attention. When she began to press down on your swollen stomach, Tommy was quick to catch her wrist in his hand, stopping her. “What are you doing?” he growled.

“Thomas,” you called weakly, beckoning him back to your side. 

He stood resolute, glaring down at the aging woman with narrowed eyes. 

“I need to try moving the baby into a better position, Mr. Shelby. She can’t keep this up much longer.” Her concerned eyes flitted towards you, and he released his hold on her.

“Do it then.”

“Thomas,” you called again, and he returned to your side, gripping your hand between both of his and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Not much longer, love.” He watched with a pained expression as she winced from the pressure the midwife was applying to her stomach. “Look at me, Nora,” he coaxed, his best attempt at distracting her. “Not much longer, and then our baby’ll be here.”

“A girl,” you whispered. “Polly said the baby’s a girl.”

“Our little girl then,” he affirmed.

And then the midwife had finished her prodding and was ordering you to push again. His eyes never left your face as you braced yourself, shoulders squared and hand pressing more forcefully into his before you pushed, once, twice, three more times.

He felt as if his heart stopped beating when a tiny, high-pitched cry drowned out the sound of your labored breathing and the other womens’ cooing.

You had finally relaxed against the pillows that had been propped against the headboard behind you, still gripping Tommy’s hand tightly. He was torn, unsure of who to focus his attention on - the woman that had just brought his child into the world or his child itself.

The midwife solved his dilemma before too long, once the baby had been wiped clean of blood and fluid. She gently pressed the squalling newborn into your arms, announcing to him what you had told him only minutes prior. “A girl, Mr. Shelby.”

You laughed and cried in equal measure at the feeling of your newborn in your arms. “Welcome to the world, little one,” you whispered against your daughter’s pink skin, pressing your lips to her nearly bald head. You squeezed his hand, drawing his gaze to yours. “Come meet your daughter, Thomas.”

Without a single moment of hesitation, he crawled onto the bed beside you, ignoring the displeased stare from the midwife as she worked between your legs to clean you up and ensure that no further complications were at hand. 

Looking at his daughter, he thought back to when Finn was born, wondering if he had been this small, this pink, this restless. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she rooted around your breasts, her little face wrinkled and her head nearly bald with the exception of a thin tuft of dark hair. So alien, yet so beautiful.

He stared, entirely transfixed by the sight before him, as you started nursing her with help from Polly and Ada. Once she had successfully latched onto your breast and the midwife had ensured that all was well with you, the three women exited the room, leaving Tommy alone with you and your daughter. 

“Have you thought of any names?” you asked, eyes flickering to meet his gaze only momentarily before returning to your daughter.

He shook his head, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and scooting as close to you as humanly possibly. “No. You carried her inside you for nearly nine months. You should name her,” he told you.

You looked up to him, eyes searching his face for reassurance that he had meant it. You nodded slowly, returning your gaze to the baby. “Okay.” You grew silent for a long moment, and the only noise that he heard was the soft suckling noise your daughter made as she drank greedily. Finally, you whispered, “I think I’d like to name her after my uncle. He took me in and treated me as one of his own when my father and brother went off to war. He deserves to be remembered, deserves to be honored this way.”

“You want to name our daughter George?” he questioned, wondering if perhaps the exhaustion had muddled your brain.

You smiled, amused. “Not quite. Perhaps Georgiana? Or Georgina, maybe?”

“Georgiana Shelby, then,” he agreed.

“Do you hear that, little one?” you asked the suckling baby, gently sweeping your thumb across her small cheek. “Georgiana Ada Shelby.”

“Ada?” He was unable to keep the surprise from his voice, wondering at your choice until he remembered all the times that Ada had been there when he hadn’t, remembered all the times that Ada had asked for reassurance that he was treating you right, remembered all the times that Ada had sat beside you at the Garrison in the early days of your newfound friendship with the Shelby family, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially as you both cast mischievously looks at Tommy and John and Arthur. “She’d like that.”

He stayed with you on the bed for hours that night, holding his daughter in his arms as you finally rested, exhaustion overtaking you. He, on the other hand, staved off sleep that night, too enraptured by the tiny person, the newest member of the Shelby family, that he cradled to his chest, chuckling when she woke in the early hours of the morning, rooting around in search of your breasts. (Tommy had roused you from your sleep that morning, his touch ghosting over the bare skin of your arms and his lips pressing softly against your forehead, savoring the warm feeling that had settled in his chest at the familiarity of you waking up beside him again after so many months apart).

It was that evening, after spending the entire day lounging in bed with you and your daughter, that Tommy fished out the ring he had carried around in his pocket for twenty-four weeks - since the night you’d removed it from your finger and left him to come to London - and held it out to you. “It’s still yours if you want it.”

He hadn’t missed your shocked expression, nor had he missed the way that shoulders straightened and your soft gaze turned stony as you stared at the diamond ring pinched between his fingers. “Honestly, Thomas,” you started, peeling your gaze from the ring to look him in the eyes, “I don’t think I do.”

He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure he wanted to say anything at all.

“I think I’m going to stay in London,” you continued. “I’m finally starting to learn who I am again, and now I need to learn who I am as a mother. I have a bad habit of losing myself when I’m with you.” You glanced down at your daughter, gaze tender. “I need to break that habit in order to be a good mother to our Georgie, Thomas.” 

“Nora, you don’t need-”

You cut him off, speaking softly, “I love you, Thomas, and I think I always will...but I need to start loving myself more. For Georgie’s sake.”

He left Ada’s house that night, taking his car and intending to drive around the city until he had calmed himself enough to climb back in bed with you and his daughter, pretending that everything was okay. Before he had even realized where he was going, he was parked in front of a lodging house, a lodging house at an address that had been whispered in his ear all those months ago at Epsom. He tucked the thoughts of you and the tiny newborn that was a little bit of you and a little bit of him into the deepest corner of his mind, and he knocked on the door. (Grace found him asleep the next morning, naked and tangled in the sheets beside her, ignorant of the guilt that settled itself deep within the pit of his stomach).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> working out some final kinks in the sequence for interlude iii, but that should hopefully be posted sometime tomorrow


	13. interlude iii. let me tell you a story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie reached across the desk, lifting your chin with a finger so that you would meet his gaze. “Look at me, love.” Your gaze settled on him. “That woman isn’t even half the woman you are, and if Tommy Shelby was even half the man I was, he would’ve realized that by now.” You stared at him, lips slightly parted, and he was reminded of what a pretty sight you made. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the only interludes planned that is not in Tommy's perspective. enjoy!  
> unedited as always

Under the watchful eye of Alfie Solomons, you’d bloomed into a vibrant, independent woman following Georgie’s birth. It was a stark contrast to the meek, obedient little thing you’d been when he hired you to handle some of the more headache-inducing accounts for him, and he found that he quite liked the new version of you. (He couldn’t help but wonder if it was truly a new version of you, or just the version of you you had been before Thomas Shelby strolled into your life). 

The first week you’d worked for him, you waddled around the office and did as you were told, keeping your gaze lowered and your mouth shut. Now, he could hardly get you to stop talking if he asked you to do something you didn’t agree with. Occasionally he’d set you off on purpose just to see the way that your eyes would sparkle with annoyance and to hear the most beautiful of foreign curses fall from your lips as you argued with him. It was damn attractive, and each time, he made a mental note to thank Tommy - thought he never did - for driving you to London in your attempt to get away from him.

There had been hiccups in your personal development, of course. The most notable had come the week you’d learned of Thomas’s rekindled relationship with the Irish woman. It hadn’t been long after you’d given birth and had returned to work, a couple months at most, but Alfie had seen some progress before suddenly it was like nothing had changed at all. You’d arrived at the bakery and wordlessly sat down to look over the document you’d been given, avoiding meeting everyone’s gaze as best as possible. The lack of a greeting meant to provoke him that morning was what told Alfie something was wrong, and he kept an eye on you all day, watching you work at the very edge of his vision. 

And then he saw the tears. Despite his leg, he was at your side in mere moments, brushing away your tears and seeking a reason for them. “It’s that fucking woman. Always that fucking woman, Alfie,” you croaked.

Typically, you avoided any and all talk of Tommy with Alfie, and Alfie preferred it that way. The less he had to hear about that gypsy cunt, the better. “Want me to shoot him?” he asked, his offer somewhere towards the middle of the scale between being genuine and joking. “I wouldn’t be too put out by a request like that.”

You were silent for a moment, and Alfie almost thought you were going to take him up on his offer before you finally croaked, “No. I can’t let you do that. He’s still Georgie’s father.”

And you still love him, Alfie had wanted to add, but he held his tongue. 

“And he’s a good father. He really is. Dotes on Georgie every time he comes down from Birmingham to see her. It’s almost like he’s a completely different person when he’s with her. He leaves all of his stress and worries at the door and gives every ounce of his attention to our daughter.” You sighed, your anger visibly beginning to regress. “It’s endearing, really. Reminds me of when...when we...”

“You’re getting off topic, love,” he gently reminded you, not caring enough to hear you reminisce about the good old days with Tommy fucking Shelby. 

“It’s just that...that woman. Thomas and I had been happy, and then she showed up and ruined everything.” Alfie had wanted to tell you that it was Tommy that ruined everything, but he let you continue before giving his two cents. “And now, Thomas and I have settled into parenting Georgie together and I’m finally happy again, and she’s ruining that, too.”

Alfie reached across the desk, lifting your chin with a finger so that you would meet his gaze. “Look at me, love.” Your gaze settled on him. “That woman isn’t even half the woman you are, and if Tommy Shelby was even half the man I was, he would’ve realized that by now.” You stared at him, lips slightly parted, and he was reminded of what a pretty sight you made. 

He’d offered you a drink then - rum or whiskey, he had asked you for what seemed liked the hundredth time - and that was the first time he noticed any hesitation in you before you answered, as always, “You know I prefer whiskey, Alfie.” 

Alfie had poured your chosen drink and handed it to you, commenting, “You’ll choose rum one of these days, love.”

Once your tears had dried and your glass was empty, you’d smiled at him, thanked him for the drink, and went home for the day. When you returned to the bakery the next morning, it was as if the day before had never happened. You were once again the vibrant, independent woman that Alfie had found himself so very fond of. You’d gone about your work, making bawdy quips every now and then, delighting in the blush that it got out of Ollie and meeting Alfie’s amused gaze through the open doorway of his office.

There had been a slight hiccup again when you’d learned of Tommy’s engagement - although he was certainly grateful for the outcome of that hiccup - and again when Tommy had missed a scheduled visit with Georgie due to some ‘unavoidable business’, but aside from the few minor instances between, there’d been relatively little issue. Instead, you’d slowly healed yourself from all of the hurt and continued to bloom vibrantly. Beautifully even, if Alfie had any opinion on the matter.

Until you stormed into his office, eyes flashing with anger and your sense of self-worth crumbling beneath his watchful gaze.

“How dare he!” Alfie watched you with keen interest as you paced back and forth in front of his desk. He had been annoyed - yet somehow still amused - when you burst into his office on your day off, eyes alight with a burning anger that he had only seen within you on rare occasions. “How fucking dare he bring her with to see my daughter! My daughter, Alfie.  _ Mine _ .”

“I’m assuming this has to do with your cunt of an ex-fiancé, yeah?”

You halted your pacing momentarily, casting an unamused look his way. “How could you tell?” you asked him sardonically. You started pacing again. “He fucking brought that woman to see my daughter, Alfie.” 

“Take a seat, love,” he urged. “You’ll wear a hole straight through my fuckin’ floor with your pacing.”

You eyed him, clearly unamused, but took the open seat across from him and folded your arms over your chest. “That woman...all she does is cause problems for me and Thomas. Before she showed up, things with Thomas and I had been good. He never hurt me until she showed up.” Your eyes widened slightly when you took notice of Alfie’s grip tightening around the documents he held in his hands. “Never physically. That was the one thing that he never did,” you reassured him. “Other than his grip being too tight a few times, he never hurt me physically. Never. Thomas wouldn’t do that.” You pursed your lips, struck in your thoughts as Alfie observed you, his gaze soaking in your features. “He was good to me when that woman wasn’t around, but she turns him into someone I don’t even recognize. And now he’s brought her to see my daughter, Alfie.  _ My daughter _ , the only fucking piece of him that belongs to me and me alone.”

“What really has you so upset, love? This isn’t the Nora Kingsley that I recognize. You look fuckin’ miserable.”

You sighed, a deep melancholy settling over your features. “I’m afraid that he’ll hurt me again for her. That he’ll take the one thing that I have left of him. He’s Thomas Shelby, Alfie. If he wants to take my daughter home to Birmingham to play some fucking twisted version of house with her and that woman, who am I to stop him.”

“You, love,” he began, taking your chin between his fingers and forcing your gaze to meet his, “are perhaps one of the scariest fuckin’ women I’ve ever met. I’ve seen you handle your own here with the men that get too liberal with their hands, and I’ve seen you scare the fuckin’ life outta Ollie on more than one occasion. Thomas Shelby doesn’t stand a fuckin’ chance if he tries to take Georgie away from you.”

You nodded slowly, your head bobbing in his grip. “You’re right, Alfie. I’m just...just so fucking scared that he’s going to take my Georgie away from me because that woman…” You trailed off, gaze averted from him once again. “She’s barren, you know. Can’t give him any children, and I’m terrified that she’ll try to use my Georgie to pretend they're this perfect fucking family.”

“Where’s Georgie now?”

“Home, with Ada and Karl.”

“Good. You should go home, too, love. Be with your daughter. That always manages to calm you down,” he observed, earning a soft smile from you.

You nodded. “I will. But first, a drink?” you asked him with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, so very different from the melancholy that had swam in them only moments ago. “I find I’m quite...parched.”

He chuckled. “So that’s why you’re here, eh. And what’ll it be today, love? Rum or-”

“Am I interrupting something?” You and Alfie turned, the moment broken, to see Tommy leaning against the doorframe, eyeing the two of you suspiciously.

“What are you doing here, Thomas?” you questioned, folding your arms over your chest.

“I have business with Alfie. What are you doing here?”

“I work for Alfie, Thomas. I’m here nearly every day,” you answered smoothly. “Perhaps you can reschedule. Alfie and I were in the middle of an important discussion.”

Tommy raised a brow at you as lips set into a tight line, clearly not believing you. When he turned to look at Alfie for confirmation, Alfie merely shrugged and bit back a smug grin. “It can’t wait.”

Alfie sighed. “Nora, love. Could you give me and Tommy a moment? Just wait outside with Ollie. Once Tommy and I are finished, we’ll have that drink.”

You begrudgingly agreed and walked from the office. Alfie didn’t miss the way that Tommy’s eyes followed your form, an unmistakable look of longing in his gaze.

Once you were out of sight, Alfie leaned forward, interlocking his fingers in front of him on the surface of his desk. “Did you know her mum was a fuckin’ wop? Nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack when she started cussin’ me out in Italian one day.” 

“I didn’t come here to discuss Nora, Alfie.”

Hadn’t he, though? Really? Tommy hadn’t failed to bring her up no less than three times in every single fucking meeting they’ve had since Alfie admitted Nora was working with him all those months ago.

“Yeah, you’re right, mate,” he conceded, “but, eh, before we get down to business I’ve got this little story to share with you, Tommy.”

Tommy waved his hand dismissively. “Get on with it, then. I’ve places to be, Alfie.” Tommy glanced over his shoulder, looking in the direction you had gone.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a busy man. I know, Tommy.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Tommy to focus on him again. “So get this, right, I ran into this pretty little thing on the streets of London a couple years back. And she was a feisty little thing, figured that it made things interesting for her beau, yeah. Turns out, that lucky bastard was a bit of a cunt, didn’t really love her like she shoulda been.”

Tommy eyed him from across the table, clearly disinterested in his story. “Is this going somewhere, Alfie?”

“Yeah, if you’d give me a fuckin’ second, I’m gettin’ there, alright. Anyway, ‘bout ten months ago now, I ran into that pretty little thing again. Y’see, she’d finally come to realize that cunt was, well, a cunt. Just up an’ left him. Thought to meself, incredible, innit? Because that pretty little thing had absolutely no fuckin’ self-esteem left, right, but she fuckin’ left him high an’ dry. So I figured whatever it was that the cunt had done to ‘er had to be pretty fuckin’ bad, right. Turns out he had a wanderin’ eye, wanderin’ hands, wanderin’ cock - you get the picture. Which is just absolutely fuckin’ mad because this pretty little thing, well, she’s a looker.”

“Alfie,” Tommy growled, the warning in his tone unmistakable. Alfie eyed Tommy curiously, studying him. He’d expected at least one threat to his life by this point, but instead, Tommy just sat there, staring at him with a murderous expression. If only looks could kill, eh?

"Ah, ah, Tommy. Lemme finish my fuckin' story. Then you can talk," he chided before continuing his story. "Y’know,” Alfie began, leaning back in his chair, “that pretty little thing showed up here, absolutely fuckin’ piss drunk, after she heard o’ your engagement, Tommy. Practically begged me to fuck ‘er.” He took considerable pleasure in watching Tommy’s jaw clench in anger. “But I’m a gentleman, right, so I had Ollie drive ‘er home and figured that would be the end of it. She slept it off and returned later that day, did her work like the obedient little thing you made ‘er, yeah, and then she joined me for a drink.” He leaned in, looking Tommy directly in the eyes. “Care to guess whether she chose rum or whiskey, mate? No? No guesses. Well, lemme tell you, Tommy. She chose fuckin’ rum. Has a few times now.”

Eyes alight with anger, Tommy stood, towering over Alfie as he remained seated. “I told you that if you touched a single fuckin’ hair on head that I’d kill you, Alfie.”

“That you did, Tommy,” Alfie agreed. “But you got it all backwards, mate. Y’see, she’s the one touchin’ my head, right.” He’d made the lewd quip with the intention of riling him up, but Tommy didn’t take the bait. “Not the other way around, but that’s besides the point, yeah. Seems to enjoy my company though, and I, in turn, enjoy hers. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement that I’m quite fond of. Quite fond of her, if I’m being honest, mate.”

“So what, do you fancy yourself in fuckin’ love with her, now?”

“Nah. Nah, mate. That would just cause too much trouble for all three o’ us, right, because despite all the shit you put ‘er through, she still loves you. And, eh, despite your engagement to the Irish woman, you still love ‘er. ‘Course, not nearly as much as you should, but what can you do, right. And me, well, I like to consider meself a friend o’ both of you. Only difference between you and ‘er is that I bend ‘er over this desk every once in a while and fuck ‘er, right.” Alfie chuckled then, scratching at his beard before adding, “Y’know, she was nearly your wife at one point. The mother of your child, now. Just think, mate, it’s almost like I’m cuckholdin’ you.”

And that last statement was the catalyst that sent Tommy into a blind rage, closed fist making contact with Alfie’s jaw.

Alfie merely laughed and spit out the bit of blood that had gathered in his mouth. “Now see, that’s more like it, Tommy.” He waggled his finger at him, eyebrows raised. “See, that fuckin’ anger that you just felt, it’s the same fuckin’ anger that she felt every time you broke ‘er fuckin’ heart. The only problem - the only fuckin’ problem, Tommy - is that she was never quite as angry with you as she was with ‘erself.” 

He poured himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey, holding it out as an offer to Tommy briefly. “Suit yourself,” he quipped when his companion remained silent. He sipped from the glass, the whiskey mixing with the fresh blood in his mouth. “Y’see, I’ve got a soft spot for Nora. I’d say I love her like a sister, but I enjoy fuckin’ ‘er so that’s not quite right. Regardless, I don’t really care to see her neck deep in self-loathing, so the next time you come down to my fuckin’ city - Nora’s city - maybe leave the Irish whore behind at your fancy house in fuckin’ Birmingham, yeah.”

Alfie clapped his hands together. “Right then, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to business, yeah. I’d like to get this taken care of as quickly as possible because as soon as you walk out that door, I’m gonna pour a couple glasses of rum and then I’m gonna fuck the mother o’ your child, Tommy.”

Alfie had never felt more glee than he had watching Tommy fucking Shelby glower at him and seethe with rage - the unmistakable tick of his jaw evidence of that rage - knowing fully well that there was absolutely fucking nothing he could do so long as they were on Alfie’s turf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, alfie solomons is a treat  
> only problem is... he's far more philosophical than i will ever be so he's difficult to write
> 
> i believe there will be one more interlude after this before we get on with part xi


	14. interlude iv. be honest with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, and Tommy couldn’t help but be reminded of the long silences that would stretch between the two of you on evenings at the Garrison in those early days, when John or Arthur or Ada would leave him alone with you to do whatever the fuck it was that they had to do. He had watched you on those nights, too, observed you and tried to figure you out. Even now, after over five years and a child together, he still hadn’t entirely figured you out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited, as always

Tommy started making more frequent visits to London after that particular meeting with Alfie Solomons. He couldn’t place the feeling, but knowing that the Jew had wormed his way between your thighs left a rotten taste in his mouth. He could hardly look at you without wondering if Alfie had gotten to learn your body as intimately as Tommy knew it. Did he know about the small scar on the backside of your thigh, the one you’d gotten when you tripped and fell when you were only five? Did he know about the way you flushed from head to toe when you were told how fucking beautiful you were? Did he know about the way you squirmed and struggled to contain your giggles at just a single brush of fingers over your ribcage? The thoughts plagued Tommy day and night.

He had, however, taken Alfie’s advice. He never allowed Grace to talk him into letting her join him in London again, never allowed her to so much as mention Georgie as if she belonged to him and only him - Georgie was a little piece of you and a little piece of him, and Grace had no place inserting herself in matters related to your daughter, regardless of her relationship to him - though she pushed back for a short while. She’d dropped the matter altogether after Tommy berated her for attempting to plan a celebration for Georgie’s first birthday in Birmingham.

(Instead, you’d planned a small gathering in London with Ada, and he and the Shelby family had traveled south for the day to celebrate the youngest member of the Shelby family. He’d kissed you without thinking as he left that night, once Georgie had been put to sleep and the others had long ago left to return to Birmingham. He’d expected you to yell at him, to push him away, but you’d kissed him back - if only for a moment - before giving him a sad smile and sending him on his way). 

A few months after that night, after that kiss, he had arrived later than he had intended for his visit with Georgie. Once he’d arrived, you hurried out the door, leaving him alone with Georgie for a few hours. His time with Georgie had done wonders on forcing back thoughts of you - where had you gone, what were you doing, were you with him - but they inevitably crept up on him as he got Georgie settled in her crib for the night without you after you failed to return before the sun began setting.

You returned just as he was preparing to leave, to make the late drive back to Birmingham, drenched from head to toe and shivering, a small puddle forming around your feet from your dripping clothes. You took one look at him, his coat halfway on and his cap on his head, before telling him, “You’re not driving home tonight, Thomas. The weather is absolute shit. There’s no way you’ll be able to see anything in the dark with this rain.”

“I should really go home, Nora,” he replied. “I need to be in the office early and-”

“Thomas, don’t argue with me.” You pulled your sopping coat off and hung it on the rack before turning to him and tugging his coat off of him and hanging it beside yours. You looked him in the eyes as you pulled the cap from his head, adding, “You’ll stay here until the weather clears up, and that’s final.”

And so Tommy found himself sat in Ada’s home drinking your favorite whiskey, a roaring fire in the fireplace to stave away the chill creeping in from outside and you beside him with a drink in your hand. He was grateful that you hadn’t just left him alone in favor of closing yourself in your bedroom, grateful that you were willing to sit in the same room again without Georgie to act as a buffer.

He surprised you - hell, it even surprised him - when he asked you to tell him about your work with Alfie. Were you enjoying it? Did he pay you well? Were you happy with the working conditions? 

It had been so long, far too long, since he’d last spoken with you without any true purpose behind either of your words. He was completely bewitched by you as you spoke. There was a brightness behind your eyes as you spoke and lilt to your voice that he hadn’t heard before. Was it new, or had he just never taken the time to really notice it before?

(Maybe, he finally realized, London had been good for you, space from him had been good for you).

There was a palpable change in you, he noticed, since the night you left him. Too sweet, too innocent, he had once thought. But looking at you then, he wondered if maybe he had always been wrong about you, maybe he had always wanted to see you as too sweet, too innocent. (Maybe he thought that too sweet, too innocent was what he had wanted before he returned from the war, and he wanted you to remind him of who he had been once).

He and you spoke for what seemed like hours, the fire needing to be rekindled more than once to floor the room with warmth and a soft, glowing light as the night outside got colder and darker. You spoke of Ada and Karl and the tiny adventures you would have with them and Georgie around London on your days away from the bakery. Tommy spoke of the latest business developments, especially the newly established Shelby Charity Foundation, and he reveled in the warmth that your soft gaze sent through his body when he spoke of his hopes for the charity. You spoke of the tiny moments with Georgie that he had missed, softly reassuring him that there would be more moments when his regret at not being present for those moments seeped onto his features. Tommy spoke of the others, telling you small anecdotes about what they had been up to in the past few months since you had last seen them for Georgie’s birthday.

He saw the familiar longing - the longing that he felt every time he looked at you - in your eyes when he spoke of Birmingham and everyone that she had left behind, and he couldn’t help himself any longer. “You should come home,” he stated finally, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “You belong in Birmingham, Nora. It’s home.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “I can’t just leave, Thomas. I have a life in London now, responsibilities. I made a commitment to Alfie. I can’t just leave.”

"Where you with him tonight?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Yes, Thomas. I was," you answered bluntly.

“Do you love him?” he asked. The part of him that resented himself for driving you away thought that maybe you should. The part of him that dared to hope you never stopped loving him thought that he wouldn’t be able to take it if you did.

“What?” you asked, startled. “God no, Thomas! What gave you that impression?”

“You’re fuckin’ him, aren’t you.”

You scoffed. “Did you love all of the women you’ve ever fucked, Thomas?”

I loved you, he wanted to say. He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Does he fuck you better than I did?”

You smirked into your glass, glancing at him with an amused twinkle in your eyes. “You don’t need that ego boost, Thomas.”

“That wasn’t a yes,” he noted smugly.

“Wasn’t a no, either,” you shot back, voice teasing. “I will say it’s certainly...different.”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, and Tommy couldn’t help but be reminded of the long silences that would stretch between the two of you on evenings at the Garrison in those early days, when John or Arthur or Ada would leave him alone with you to do whatever the fuck it was that they had to do. He had watched you on those nights, too, observed you and tried to figure you out. Even now, after over five years and a child together, he still hadn’t entirely figured you out. 

You had seemed so different back then, less lively than you were now. Now, your eyes danced with mirth and your cheeks were colored a healthy pink. Back then, your gaze had been glazed, as if you were searching for something you’d never find and your skin was more often than not ghostly pale, coloring only in embarrassment or anger. You were still just as beautiful as the day he met you, but even your beauty had changed. It was a softer beauty, accentuated by the soft curves that had come with pregnancy and remained after Georgie’s birth. 

“You look good, Nora,” he commented after thoroughly observing you.

The corner of your mouth twitched upwards. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Thomas.” You glanced towards the ceiling, lips parting slightly before smiling wryly. “You’ve always been handsome. Frustratingly so. It was one of the things that drew me to you.”

“Was this it?” he questioned, teasing. His smile fell when he saw the melancholic expression on your face. Had he said something wrong?

“It wasn’t long after Ben had taken his own life that I met you,” you whispered, not meeting his eyes. Instead, he watched you absentmindedly swirl your whiskey around your glass with a vacant look in your eyes. “I felt lost without him, my very best friend, and the two months between burying him and meeting you was like a waking dream. I didn’t know who I was anymore, didn’t know what I was doing, didn’t know how to just breathe and live without him.”

You fell silent then, and he took the moment to observe you. His eyes traced over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the shape of your jaw, the sadness in your eyes. He wanted to hold you in his arms and chase that sadness away.

“I think I saw a kindred soul in you when we met. You were only recently returned from the war, wandering about in life and trying to reconcile yourself with the person you were before the war and the person you had become after the war, looking just as lost as I had felt.” You met his gaze, a wistful expression etched over your features. “I thought maybe we could help each other find the people we were meant to be, the versions of ourselves we’d lost to our ghosts and demons. Instead, I became more lost than I had ever been, and you…”

“Became the person I said I’d never be,” he finished for you, feeling the shame and guilt that had settled in his stomach the night you left him intensify. “Do you ever regret loving me?”

You hesitated, turning away from him. The fire burning in the fireplace reflected off of your eyes as you stared into the flames, shadows dancing over your features. Tommy stared at you, entranced. “I don’t regret it,” you finally answered. “I’ll never regret it, Thomas.”

“Because of Georgie?”

“Partially,” you admitted. “But also because, despite everything, I’d likely still be lost if you hadn’t given me reason to find myself again. Your reasons were absolute shit and I don’t think I could ever forgive you for all the pain you caused me, but I can finally move on at the very least. From the pain of losing Ben, from the pain of not being enough for you, from the pain of not loving myself. All of it.”

“You were always enough for me, Nora,” he reassured you, his hands aching to reach out to you, to touch you. “Always.”

You looked at him with raised brows and retorted, “Could’ve fooled me.”

He sighed and sank further into his seat, feeling devastated at the reminder of his treatment of you. He never wanted to be that person. “I was awful to you, I know.” He glanced over at you to find you staring at him with a gaze filled with curiosity. “I wake up every morning and regret not having you by my side, but I know...I fuckin’ know that I have no one to blame but myself.”

“I should’ve stood up for myself,” you offered weakly, but Tommy wasn’t having any of it.

“No,” he said firmly. “No, Nora. You don’t carry any of the blame for how things happened between us. I’m solely responsible. Everything you said the night you left had been true.”

“Thomas,” you breathed, your gaze growing tender as you looked at him. 

“I never wanted to be this man,” he admitted quietly, defeated. “I wanted to be someone that deserved you, but I fucked it up every chance I could and slowly turned into my father.”

You cupped his cheek then, and he sighed at the touch. When was the last time you had touched him, had comforted him in the easy way that only you could? “No, Thomas. You’re a better man than he was.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, shame overtaking him as he took your other hand in his.

“You are,” you reassured him. “You’re a wonderful father to Georgie. I know you’d never voluntarily leave your daughter, would never so willingly hurt her to preserve yourself.” You took his face between your hands, and he reveled in the warmth of your familiar touch. “Thomas Shelby, look at me. Look at me.” His gaze flickered up to meet yours. “You are not your father.”

“I hurt  _ you _ ,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve become my father by hurting you.” His fingers danced along your hairline as his eyes searched your face, looking for any indication that you wanted him to stop. He found none. “I hurt you, Nora. Over and over. I was selfish, thinking that I could have you and carry on the way that I had.” His thumb ghosted over your parted lips, and you sighed at the touch. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I should have done everything possible to make sure you knew that.”

“You know, I think this might be the most candid we’ve ever been with one another,” you commented. He couldn’t disagree. Other than those first few months of your relationship, neither of you were truly honest to one another - he had intentionally hidden things from you, work and women, and you had lost the courage to speak up, to tell him how you truly felt about the way he was treating. Other than those first few months of your relationship, Tommy and you had never taken the time to just sit down together and talk, speaking exactly what was on your minds. 

A prick of longing in his chest made him miss those days more than he ever had. In those days, he had loved you the way he should have loved you the entire time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, swallowing thickly when your melancholic gaze met his. “I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve ever caused you.” Your thumb trailed over his cheek then, wiping away a tear that he hadn’t even realized he had shed. “I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you.” 

“Good,” you responded, though there was no bitterness to your tone. Only gentle regard. “Use that feeling to do better, Thomas. To be better. I saw a glimpse of the man that you want to be before that woman showed up. I know you can be a better man, Thomas. Forgive yourself once you become that man.”

“I still love you.”

“I know,” you whispered, your warm breath ghosting over his face and your gaze soft. He felt his heartbeat thundering within his chest as you fell silent, looking like you had wanted to say more but thought better of it. Instead of using words, you leaned forward and tentatively pressed your lips to his, igniting every nerve in his body with a need to touch you, to pull you close and never let you go.

“Tell me to leave her, Nora. Tell me to call off the engagement and I will.” His lips brushed yours with every word, and the familiarity of the feeling made his heart flutter in his chest. He felt like a lovesick little boy again as he got lost in your eyes, searching for an answer. “Come home. To Birmingham, to me.”

“I can’t do that, Thomas,” you stated. “I can’t do that without knowing how I truly feel, what I really want. Part of me wants to tell you to leave her, to be a family with me and Georgie, but the other part of me still can’t trust you enough to know you won’t hurt me again, that we won’t hurt Georgie by how...how toxic we can be.”

There was logic behind your reasoning, but he couldn’t help himself from hoping that the part of you that wanted to be a family, that wanted him still, would eventually win out. “Is there any hope for us? In the future?”

Your lips twitched up into a ghost of a smile. “That depends, Thomas.”

“On what?”

“You,” you answered vaguely, pressing a final kiss to his lips before you stood from your seat, leaving your empty glass behind. “It’s getting late. I should check on Georgie.”

He stood, abandoning his half-empty glass. “I’ll come with you.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s fine. I’m just going to peek in on her and then turn in for the night.” You smiled at him - a real smile, not the fake one that he had grown so used to seeing towards the end of your relationship - and whispered, “Goodnight, Thomas.”


	15. interlude v. hope i don't burden you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved Grace, he knew, but you...you were different. You always had been. You knew him intimately in a way that Grace never would - because he was never willing to share that piece of him with her - and he knew you in a way that no other man (especially not Alfie fucking Solomons) ever would. You’d kept his demons at bay while he kept your ghosts from overwhelming you during the darkest of nights. You’d helped him find a sense of peace, of home when he didn’t know what that meant anymore. You became his anchor, and without you he was fucking drifting aimlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an additional interlude before part xi for some more tommy insight

Every visit that followed the night he had stayed in London made him buzz with anxiety, unsure of how to move forward with you without unintentionally moving three steps back in the process.

He was relieved that you started to stay during his visits, spending time in the nursery watching with him and Georgie play on the floor and even occasionally sitting cross-legged on the floor with him, Georgie curled in your lap as you read to her. He was mesmerized in those moments, watching the way your face lit up as you read children’s tales to your toddler, fingers carding through her dark hair and slowly soothing her to sleep.

(Those days that you stayed, his mind was able to rest. Those days that you stayed, he didn’t wonder if you were with Alfie, didn’t wonder if the Jew pleased you better than he could, didn’t wonder if you pretended that Alfie was him like he sometimes pretended Grace was you).

By the time Tommy had realized that you and he had settled into an easy friendship - something you’d not done prior to beginning your relationship all those years ago - there was only three months between then and his approaching wedding date. 

The first month, he asked you no less than three times to tell him to leave Grace, to call off the wedding. He would have done it in a heartbeat. He would have done whatever it was that you asked of him if it meant you’d finally come home. 

But each time he asked, your answer was always the same as it had been the first time he asked. “I can’t do that, Thomas,” you would whisper, eyes sad and pleading. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

And each time he would attempt to ask you why you wouldn’t just fucking ask him to leave Grace, to figure out why you were determined to make this harder on both of you than was necessary, you would shut him down and change the topic, discussing your daughter or asking about the others back home. 

You asked after John and Esme and their growing brood, asking him if he would mind taking a present back to Birmingham for Katie’s recent birthday that you had missed. You asked after Arthur and his new wife, asking him if he knew whether Arthur had received your gift and to pass along your apologies for not making it to the wedding. You asked after Pol and Michael and Finn, asking if he knew whether Pol was planning to make a trip to London any time soon, asking how Michael was managing now that he was taking care of all of the accounts on his own, and asking how Finn was doing now that he was slowly getting more involved with the family business. (You’d given him a disapproving look when you had mentioned sixteen year old Finn’s involvement in the business, and he was reminded of how  _ motherly  _ you’d become since you gave birth to Georgie).

And so, he would be roped into various conversations about his family that you didn’t see nearly as much as you would have liked, and the conversation that he truly wanted to have was tabled for another day.

The second month, he never asked you to tell him to leave Grace. Instead, he watched you closely, waiting to see if you would bring the matter up yourself.

You never did.

Instead, you avoided the topic of his engagement and his upcoming wedding altogether. Tommy had started to develop the habit of sticking around after Georgie had been put down for her nap, sitting opposite you on the loveseat and sipping on your favorite whiskey as you talked to him about the small moments he had missed with Georgie between his visits. 

It made his heart ache to know what he was missing with his daughter, made him regret that his decisions, his actions were the cause for the distance between him and his family - because to him, you would always be his family - but seeing the way that your face lit up as you talked about your daughter, the little girl that was a little bit of him and a little bit of you made him feel a warmth throughout his body that he had desperately been missing lately.

The ache in his chest that always bloomed when he had to leave you and Georgie, when he had to return to London, was especially painful that month. He had returned to Arrow House after each visit, greeted Grace halfheartedly, and locked himself in his office with his cigarettes and one of the many bottles of your favorite whiskey that he kept stocked on his shelves, still unopened and waiting for you to come back home. He’d ignored Grace that night when ignored her when she tried to get him to join her for dinner that evening, ignored her when she tried to coax him from his seclusion with the offer of sex, ignored her when she tried to use her concern for his unhealthy sleeping habits to get him to emerge from his office long after the sun had set. 

(He drank himself into a stupor those nights, the small picture of you and Georgie that he carried with him everywhere he went reminding him of what he could have if only you would tell him to leave Grace).

The third month, he tried to convince you to come home one more time. 

It was during a visit shortly after the weather began to warm, and after some convincing from you, Tommy agreed to join you and Georgie on a stroll around the city to enjoy the uncharacteristically warm spring day. He’d walked at your side, his hands tucked firmly into his pockets as you pushed Georgie about in her pram. 

“What has you so quiet and thoughtful, Thomas?” you asked, a teasing tone to your voice. “It’s a beautiful day, you’re spending time with your daughter, you’re spending time with…” You trailed off, a slightly distressed look on your face. 

Tommy knew what you had meant to say. ‘ _ You’re with me _ ’. He nodded, giving his best attempt at a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nora, please just come-”

“Not now, Thomas,” you cut him off abruptly. “Not here.” Your eyes flickered around your surroundings, eyeing the various strangers that passed you by without even a second glance. “We’ll talk when we get back to the house.” You grew silent before adding belatedly, “I promise.”

And so Tommy remained quiet for the entire walk, doing as you asked and enjoying the warm weather as he tried to put his thoughts together into a convincing argument. 

But the domesticity of it all, walking through the city with you and Georgie, had caught him off guard and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing at not being able to do this every day with you, at not being able to have little moments like these with you and Georgie. He had already missed so much - his daughter’s first words, when she took her first wobbly steps - but he never thought he’d miss something so simple as taking a walk through the city with you until the walk had ended and you were putting Georgie down for her nap.

And as was becoming habit, he had sat down with you on the loveseat and watched with curious eyes as you decided to forgo a glass and drank directly from the bottle of your favorite whiskey. “Well,” you said once you’d lowered the bottle from your lips. “Say what it is that you want to say, Thomas.”

He didn’t waste any time. “Come home with me.”

You sighed and lowered your gaze to the floor. “Thomas, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” he acknowledged. “And every time we’ve talked about it, you’ve turned me down. Why?”

You looked at him as if he had grown a second head, eyes wide and brows knit together. “You know why, Thomas. You’re engaged. To a woman that’s not me. To a woman that you had an affair with.”

“I told you I’d leave her if you ask me to.”

“I won’t do that,” you answered, and he could feel himself growing frustrated at hearing the same answer over and over again. Before he could ask you why, demand an answer for why you always gave him the same answer, you muttered, “Do you love her?”

He fell silent, his eyes scanning your face as understanding overtook your features. “I do,” he finally answered, “but I...Nora, I’m not…” 

He loved Grace, he knew, but you...you were different. You always had been. You knew him intimately in a way that Grace never would - because he was never willing to share that piece of him with her - and he knew you in a way that no other man (especially not Alfie fucking Solomons) ever would. You’d kept his demons at bay while he kept your ghosts from overwhelming you during the darkest of nights. You’d helped him find a sense of peace, of home when he didn’t know what that meant anymore. You became his anchor, and without you he was fucking drifting aimlessly.

You were his Nora, and he was your Thomas. 

And if you would just fucking ask him to leave, he would fucking leave Grace and everything would go back to normal and you, him and Georgie could be a family like you were always meant to be.

(But things wouldn’t go back to normal, would they? Because he had hurt you, time and time again, and he had yet to give you a good reason to trust him again. It wasn’t often that he felt shame, but looking at you and your sad eyes, he was ashamed of how he hurt you).

“It’s okay, Thomas,” you whispered, but he could hear from your voice, the way it had grown hoarse and shaky, that it wasn’t okay. 

You never asked why - why did he love Grace, why did he cheat, why did he hurt you - and he figured you didn’t want to know, didn’t want to put yourself through the heartbreak of asking questions that you might not like the answer to. He wished, just once, that you would fucking ask so he could explain without it seeming like he was try to force his apologies down your throat. 

“I love  _ you _ , Nora,” he offered, hoping to chase the sadness away. He took your face between his hands and tried to ignore the panic that was beginning to settle deep in his chest. “It’s not the same, Nora. It’s not the same. Ask me to leave her and I will.”

You smiled sadly at him, and before you even answered, he knew what you were going to say. “I can’t ask you to do that, Thomas.”

During his final visit to London before the wedding, he could tell that there was something off with you, could tell that you were agitated and hurting. 

He made it through the entire visit with Georgie without bringing it up, but the minute Georgie was sleeping and you had closed the door to the nursery behind you, storming down the hall and away from him, he couldn’t stop himself any longer. He followed after you, his long strides allowing him to make it to your door before you could shut him out.

“Nora, talk to me,” he pleaded as he followed you into your room, growing more and more anxious as he watched you pace back and forth, biting your nails nervously. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” you asked incredulously. “You’re getting married in less than a week, Thomas! You’re fucking getting married!” You lowered your voice, trying to blink away the tears that he could see forming in your eyes. “You’re getting married, Thomas, and it’s not to me.”

He was angry then, not understanding how you could be mad at him for something that he had given you chance after chance to prevent. “All you had to do was fuckin’ tell me to leave Grace, Nora! That’s fuckin’ it! Why won’t you tell me to leave her if you’re this fuckin’ miserable?”

“I can’t do that, Thomas! It’s not my fucking choice to make!” you screamed at him, tears streaming freely down your face. “It’s not my fucking place to tell you what to do, Thomas!”

He pulled you into his arms, attempting to sooth you as best as he knew how, but you pushed back against his chest, putting space between you. “Nora, just tell me-”

“No, Thomas!” you argued, voice firm and commanding. “If I do that, then I’m no fucking better than she is. I’m not not going to tell you what to do. The only person that can make that decision for you is you. Please, don’t ask me to do this, Thomas. Please.”

His shoulders sagged and he felt like there was no way to please you. “Then tell me what the fuck you want me to do, Nora.”

“You need to decide, Thomas, because I’m not going to decide for you. I’m not going to tell you what to do and risk you resenting me for it in the future. I won’t tell you to leave her just so you can pine after her in a year, two years, ten years - fuck, even in twenty years, Thomas! This isn’t my fucking choice to make.” You wiped at your tears with your sleeve, and he longed to reach out to you, to dry your tears and tell you he’d never regret choosing you. Instead, “I think you should go, Thomas. I’m done with this conversation.”

The day of his wedding, he couldn’t help but think of how the entire thing felt wrong. It wasn’t in a church that you would have chosen, it wasn’t in a season that you would have chosen, and it most certainly wasn’t as simple as you would have preferred. It wasn’t you that would meet him at the altar. His chest felt tight, constricted by the weight of his past decisions that had led him to this moment, to this church, to this fucking wedding. 

It was all wrong. 

He paced back and forth, trying to make sense of the thoughts flooding his mind, the thoughts that sounded like your voice, sweet and lilting and coaxing him to you.

And then, in a moment of clarity that he hadn’t been able to find in months - maybe even longer, maybe not since you left - he knew what he wanted. 

He wrote a quick note to Grace, his writing nearly illegible from his trembling hand, and placed it atop his desk. He’d need to tell Arthur where he was going, would need to make sure that Arthur passed along the message to the people that needed to know. Once Tommy found Arthur and provided a quick explanation, his brother clapped him on the back, a proud smile on his face, and wished him safe travels. 

He walked through the door without a second thought.

You had been right all of those times you told him it was never your choice to make. It had to be his choice and his choice alone, and he finally decided to act on how he had felt for far too long now.


	16. act xi. can't live without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You watched him as he stood transfixed, eyes softening as he watched you with your daughter. “I made the right choice today,” he whispered, just barely audible over Georgie’s babbling. “I want to be a better man, a better father. I’d give you and Georgie the world if you asked for it, but it still wouldn’t make up for everything that I’ve done to hurt you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not overly pleased with this - it's literally just a bunch of dialogue ideas thrown together and made to look like they fit but hopefully it works

The day of Thomas’s wedding, you did your best to ignore the growing ache in your heart and the regret you felt for not telling him to call off his engagement all of those times he had offered in the past three months.

You’d faked a smile and wished Ada and Karl a safe trip as they left to go north that morning, ignoring Ada's look of concern as she saw straight through you façade, and you spent a majority of the day in the nursery with your daughter, heart feeling a little lighter as you watched her toddle around the room on her chubby little legs. You’d spent the morning playing on the floor with her, spent the afternoon reading to her and lulling her to sleep for her nap, and as she slept you took time to bath yourself (and drown your sorrows in a bottle of whiskey). 

A part of you considered driving to Camden Town, knowing that Alfie would likely be at the bakery late into the evening and knowing that he would be more than willing to allow you to use his body as a temporary reprieve from your heartbreak, but you couldn’t bring yourself to put such a distance between yourself and your daughter, the only piece of Thomas that was still entirely yours.

You’d stepped out of the house friendly after your bath, leaving Georgie in the care of the housekeeper, and spent nearly an hour wandering aimlessly, chain smoking the pack of cigarettes you’d swiped from Ada months ago as you walked down street after street.

The taste of tobacco and the smell of the smoke still disgusted you, but after you’d broken free of your prior bad habit of bending and breaking for Thomas, you’d inevitably picked up another bad habit. There was something about the way that each drag, each inhalation set fire to your lungs and temporarily burned away the ever present ache in your chest gave you a deep sense of satisfaction, as if proving to you that you were still human, that you still made bad choices for yourself and not anyone else.

The sun was starting its descent in the sky when you returned to the house, still as quiet as it had been when you left. You’d forgone removing your coat and depositing your purse in its usual spot in favor of checking on Georgie first.

You’d come to a sudden stop in the door of the nursery that Georgie shared with Karl, eyes trained on the lone figure that sat in a chair next to your daughter’s crib, elbows braced on his legs and chin rested on his clasped hands as he stared down at your still sleeping daughter.

Without a second thought, you approached with urgent steps, the need to protect your daughter overtaking all other thoughts, and pulled the small handgun from your purse, pressing the muzzle to the side of his head.

The man turned his head ever so slightly, haunting eyes meeting yours. “You planning to shoot me then, Nora?” His gaze expectant flickered back and forth between you and the gun aimed at his head. “Do you even know how to use that?”

You shrugged. “Alfie taught me. Figured a woman working for him should know how, ‘specially a woman that’s the mother of Thomas Shelby’s child.” Realizing there was no threat to your daughter, you lowered the gun once your heart rate returned to normal and tucked it back into its place at the bottom of your purse. You approached the crib, finger lightly tracing over your daughter’s chubby cheeks so as to not wake her. “What are you doing here, Thomas? If I recall correctly, there’s a social engagement today that requires your presence.” You nodded your head towards his attire, the pristine navy suit and flower pinned to the breast of his suit jacket making him look frustratingly handsome. Your heart ached just looking at him.

He nodded, gaze returning to your sleeping child. “There is,” he agreed. “Grace has probably started wondering where I’ve gone by now.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I left her a note. She’ll find it soon enough if she hasn’t already.”

“Thomas.”

“Told Arthur where I was going. He’ll pass the information along to the people who need to know.”

“Fucking answer my question, Thomas!” you hissed, voice slightly raised but still low enough to not wake Georgie. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t I?” he questioned, eyes filled with a sadness you’d never seen in them before. “I haven’t felt like myself all week - even longer than that, really. Kept hearing a voice in my head reminding me of all the shit things I’ve done and all of the people I’ve hurt. I tried to ignore it. I really did. Couldn’t sleep or concentrate on work, though. The voice wouldn’t let me. It just kept getting louder and louder as the week went on until it was screaming at me. D’you know whose voice I kept hearing, Nora?”

You met his gaze but remained silent, holding your breath.

“It was your voice, love,” he admitted. “It was your fuckin’ voice in my head all week, and this morning I realized why.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back against the railing of Georgie’s crib. “And why was that, Thomas?”

“Because I can’t fuckin’ live without you.” 

His admission left you stunned and in disbelief. Perhaps you’d heard him wrong. “Can you repeat yourself, please?”

“I can’t live without you, Nora,” he repeated softly. “I just fuckin’ can’t.”

You resisted the urge to reach out to him, to touch him, to tell him that you felt the same. Instead, you stayed frozen in place. “You should have thought about that before you chose her, Thomas,” you replied coolly. 

“I chose you!” His raised voice startled Georgie from her sleep, her cries filling the room. He stood, concern for his daughter etched across his face, but once he saw that she was easily soothed in your arms, he continued. “I chose you every single fuckin’ time, Nora. I chose you when Grace asked me to go to America with her, I chose you when she came back to England, I chose you that night after Georgie's birth, I chose you three months ago when I asked if I should call off the engagement, and I chose you today. I chose you, Nora. I left Grace at the fuckin’ alter _for you_.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you murmured, rocking Georgie gently to ignore the increasing trembling in your hands. “I didn’t ask you to do that, Thomas.”

He drew closer, laying a gentle hand over yours on Georgie’s back. “You didn’t have to. I would have regretted marrying the wrong person for the rest of my life if I didn’t.”

Your eyes flitted across his face, searching for any sign that he was lying. You couldn’t find any, and you weren’t sure if that were worse than him lying. If he had lied, you would have found it easy to turn him away the same way you had the night he asked you to tell him to call off the engagement, but seeing that he was genuine made you waver, wanting to hear him out. “Then why agree to marry her in the first place?”

He shrugged, his gaze glazed over. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes at him. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? You doing the right thing?” You stepped away from his touch, and he settled down in the armchair once again while you tried to rock Georgie back to sleep. “I won’t lie, Thomas. I take immense pleasure in knowing that the one time you tried to do the right thing for once in your life, it made you absolutely fucking miserable. Now maybe you’ll understand how miserable I felt every time you made the choice to not do the right thing.”

“You should,” he murmured, averting his gaze. “I was awful to you.”

You nodded. “You were,” you agreed. “But you were also good to me. Not always. But you had your moments, however fleeting they were.”

“Is that all we ever truly were? Fleeting moments?”

You thought about it for a moment before answering, “I don’t think so. Regardless of everything that’s happened between us, I still loved you at the end of the day, and my feelings for you were anything but fleeting.” You glanced down at Georgie, her haunting eyes - her father’s eyes - open and curious as she stared up at you. You smiled softly at her before meeting Thomas’s gaze again. “Look at the life we made together. She’s anything but the product of fleeting moments.”

You watched him as he stood transfixed, eyes softening as he watched you with your daughter. “I made the right choice today,” he whispered, just barely audible over Georgie’s babbling. “I want to be a better man, a better father. I’d give you and Georgie the world if you asked for it, but it still wouldn’t make up for everything that I’ve done to hurt you.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t, but in the time that we’ve been apart, I’ve learned something.” You set Georgie down on the floor as she began to squirm in your arms, and you watched fondly as she toddled off to play. “I learned that loving myself didn’t mean I had to stop loving you.”

His shocked gaze met yours before swiftly dropping to the floor. “Sometimes I wish I’d met you before the war. The person I was before the war might’ve deserved you,” he murmured. “The person I was before the war wouldn’t have treated you the way that I have. The person I was before the war would have hated the man that I’ve become.”

“Thomas Shelby, look at me. Look at me.” You stepped into the space between his legs and gripped his face between your hands and forced his gaze to meet yours. “I love the person you are now. The person you are now gave me our Georgie.” You paused, lips quirked up into the ghost of an amused smile. “Besides, I would’ve been hardly fifteen by the time you shipped out to France.”

“And yet, I would’ve loved you all the same,” he breathed. His head drooped forward, resting his forehead against your stomach as his hands gently gripped your hips. “Tell me what I need to do, Nora. Tell me what it’ll take to get you to come home. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay without you.”

Your fingers carded through his hair as silence permeated the room. “We’ve been here before, Thomas,” you breathed, unsure of what else to say. “What makes this time any different than the other times you’d promised to change, to be a better man?”

“Because I don’t like who I am anymore. I haven’t liked who I was since you left.” He looked up at you, eyes pleading. “Tell me what it’ll take, Nora. Tell me what I need to do to get you and Georgie to come home with me.”

“Could you be faithful?” you probed. “Could you be honest? Could you be present?” You searched his gaze as you questioned him, looking for any sign of insincerity. “I deserve no less than that, Thomas.”

“I could do that,” he promised, hope shining in his haunting eyes. “No more women, no more lies, no more nights wondering where I am. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be a better man, one that deserves you.”

“Being honest is more than not lying to me, Thomas. There could be no more secrets. No more hiding things from me in the name of protecting me. I am not weak, Thomas.” You kneeled, bringing yourself eye-level with him. “I am not the same girl I was when we met. I am not that sweet, innocent girl anymore.” ‘ _Too sweet, too innocent’_ echoes in your mind. “I need you to share things with me, to tell me even the worst of your secrets if this - _us_ \- is to work again.”

“No more secrets,” he breathed. 

“If I’m to give you my heart again, give _myself_ , I need to be able to trust you with every piece of me. I can’t do that unless you can trust me with every piece of you - heart, mind, body, soul. All of it. Even the darkest parts of you.”

He cupped your cheek and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, “I’ll gladly give you everything I have to offer.” The sincerity in his voice, in his haunting eyes nearly left you breathless, and you couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken so frankly to you.

Your brows furrowed, fearful that Thomas may disappoint you yet again as you asked, “And if I wanted to leave Birmingham, leave England for good? If I wanted to return to America? Would you leave too?”

He didn’t miss a beat, answering, “I’d pay the fare for you, me, and Georgie tonight. We’d be on the first available boat across the Atlantic.” You released a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

"There still work to be done before we're fine, Thomas, but I'm willing to try if you are." He kissed you then, his hands caressing your face tenderly. You felt a pleasant buzzing beneath your skin from head to toe at his kiss, and you knew, like a moth to a flame, you would always feel that magnetic pull to him even though there was always a chance you'd get burned. This time, though...it wasn't like before. There was a sincerity to his words that you'd never heard from him before, and knowing that he was willing to try, willing to change, willing to be better... He wouldn't let you get burned this time.

You pulled away and smiled at him, the heaviness that had pervaded your heart and made it’s home there so long ago steadily lifting. “We’ll stay in Birmingham,” you told him, smile growing wider when his eyes lifted to meet your gaze, happiness dancing within their haunting depths. “It’s where our family is. It’s our home.” You pressed your lips to his delicately, body tingling at the sensation of his lips on yours again. He gently pulled you closer, your body flush against his as he held the back of your head, and the way he held you made it seem like he worried you would disappear if he let go of you again.

“Run away with me,” he whispered against your lips. “We’ll go to the coast for a holiday, you, me, and Georgie. Get away from everything for a while, just the three of us.”

“And what would we do there?”

“Get married,” he replied as if it was obvious. “We’ll find a Catholic priest to marry us because that's what your mother would’ve wanted, find a couple witnesses.”

“No, Thomas,” you began, and you felt him deflate slightly. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it properly. We’ll say our vows in front of our friends and family.” 

He perked up, haunting gaze tracing over your face. “I don’t care how we do it, so long as I can call you my wife at the end of the day.”

“End of the day, eh?” You stepped away from him and gathered Georgie in your arms, chuckling as she fussed slightly from being taken away from her toys. “What do you think, Georgie? Should we go home?”

“Home,” she repeated, reaching for Thomas. 

You carefully passed her to Thomas, smoothing her dark hair back. “Call Arthur,” you urged him. “Tell him to gather everyone at the Garrison. Tell him we’ll need a priest.”

“Tonight?”

You smiled widely at him, enjoying the look of genuine surprise in his haunting eyes. “You’re already dressed for a wedding, aren’t you?” you teased. “Besides, I’d like to think I’ve waited long enough to become Mrs. Shelby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have literally nothing but three lines of dialogue written beyond this point, so may be a couple days before i have anything new to post
> 
> and in the name of determining interest - since i know some people were pleased with the alfie bits - if i created an alternate story of sorts, like a "b-side" for nora/alfie, would people be interested in that? it wouldn't happen until this is nearly completed but figured i'd throw it out there and maybe work on it when/if i hit a block on this.


	17. act xii. you fill my head with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You returned his kiss greedily, ignoring the whistles and bawdy encouragements (mostly from John and Arthur). He pressed one, two, three more short kisses to your lips before pulling back and resting his forehead against your, his eyes never leaving yours as he smiled softly. “Hello, Mrs. Shelby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or alternate chapter summary: a break from the typical angst and heartbreak for a little fluff and light smut?  
> i highly enjoyed writing this part, so you can look forward to a little more fluff in the future  
> as always, unedited

Hand in hand with Thomas, you stood outside the Garrison, listening fondly to the sounds of revelry just through the doors. You nervously adjusted Georgie on your hip, the action catching Thomas's attention.

“You ready for this?” he asked, concern clear in his haunting eyes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, smiling softly at him and squeezing his hand in yours. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready for years,” he answered smoothly. “Just took me a while to stop being a cunt.”

You laughed, and together you stepped through the doors of the Garrison for the first time in nearly two years. The sense of familiarity that washed over you - from the smell of the pub to the familiar faces inside - helped to calm your rattled nerves. 

Polly noticed you first, catching your eyes through the gathered crowd of friends and family. When she approached, others started to take notice of your arrival and turned to observe you and Thomas curiously. 

She took your face between her hands and looked you over, eyes sparkling with approval. “My dear, you look wonderful.” In an effort to dress for the occasion, you’d pulled your nicest ivory colored dress from your wardrobe before leaving London. It wasn’t a proper wedding gown by any means, but it would do. “Doesn’t she look wonderful, Thomas?” Polly turned her gaze on her nephew, a single brow raised at him.

“She looks beautiful, Pol,” he answered. He caught your gaze then, a tender look in his eyes. “She always looks beautiful.” 

You lost yourself in his gaze then, heart fluttering in your chest happily, only to be pulled back to when Polly cleared her throat. She reached out and took Georgie in her arms, the toddler squirming slightly at the new position, leaving your other hand free to smooth down your dress. “Are the two of you ready, then?”

Thomas looked down at you, a sense of uncertainty in his haunting gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked. “We could do this properly. A big wedding in a church, a large celebration.”

“Look around, Thomas,” you urged, glancing around the room. You spotted John and Arthur with their wives, looking at you expectantly with wide grins. You spotted Johnny Dogs and some others from the Lee clan. You spotted Ada beside Finn and Michael, nursing a drink in her hands and glaring at Thomas. You spotted Uncle Charlie and Curly towards the edge of the crowd with some of the other Peaky boys. You spotted Jeremiah Jesus, waiting for you and Thomas in the midst of everyone gathered. “We’re surrounded by friends and family where it all started. I’d take this over a proper wedding any day.”

“Aren’t women typically more picky about their wedding day?”

“I’m not a typical woman, Thomas. I pride myself on my individuality.”

He raised a brow at you. “Is that what they’re callin’ it these days?” he teased good-humoredly. “Individuality?”

You rolled your eyes at him, unable to keep a smile from your face. “So Mr. Shelby. Should we do this?”

He gave your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Absolutely.”

Once you’d made your way through the gathered crowd of friends and family and stood next to Thomas before Jeremiah Jesus, the ceremony began. “Dearly beloved,” Jeremiah Jesus started, “we are gathered here this evening to join together in holy matrimony Thomas Michael Shelby and Eleanora Louise Kinglsey…” 

You barely registered the words that Jeremiah Jesus was speaking, the loud thundering of your heartbeat in your ears making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. You sought Thomas’s gaze to anchor you in the moment. His haunting eyes met yours and his thumb brushed over the skin of your palm soothingly, providing you just enough clarity to repeat your vows before Thomas’s hands were capturing your face and he was kissing you.

And his kiss...his kisses had always been enough to take your breath away, but the way he had kissed you then was as if he was pouring every ounce of emotion into it, trying to communicate his love for you when words weren’t enough. 

You returned his kiss greedily, ignoring the whistles and bawdy encouragements (mostly from John and Arthur). He pressed one, two, three more short kisses to your lips before pulling back and resting his forehead against your, his eyes never leaving yours as he smiled softly. “Hello, Mrs. Shelby.”

“Hello, Mr. Shelby,” you returned happily, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl in love for the first time. You kissed him again.

A small thump against your leg made you separate in confusion, but your smile only grew wider when you saw Georgie holding onto your leg and staring up at you. “Up, up,” she babbled. “Mama, up.”

“Come here, little one.”

Thomas reluctantly let go of your hand as you leaned down to sweep you daughter into your arms, and once Georgie was securely propped against your hip, you were back in Thomas’s embrace. He pressed a kiss to your cheek before pressing a soft kiss to Georgie’s forehead. “I never want this moment to end,” he whispered, uncharacteristically romantic, as he took in the sight of you and your daughter, tucked snuggly into his side.

And then the moment was broken when Arthur had wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pushing a full glass of whiskey - your favorite whiskey, you noted after a small sip - into your free hand as he puffed on a cigar. “It’s about fuckin’ time you became a Shelby, Nora,” he commented. He gestured towards Thomas, who watched the spectacle with an amused curiosity. “Only took five fuckin’ years longer than it should have.”

You welcomed the hugs of congratulations from Arthur and John and Esme, noticing that Arthur’s wife was lingering behind them, eyeing you skeptically. You ignored her, instead turning to Arthur. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make your wedding, Arthur. I would have been there but…”

He waved away your apologies. “Don’t worry about it. No one can blame you for keeping your distance. ‘Sides, we got your gift.” He glanced over his shoulder towards his wife and called her over. “Linda, come meet Nora.”

She approached cautiously, a tight smile on her lips as she looked you up and down. “So this is the American with loose morals.”

“Excuse me?” you asked, taken aback by her comment. You squeezed Thomas’s hand when you felt him tense, his irritation at his brother’s wife prodding him into a fit. 

“You have a bastard out of wedlock, don’t you?” She glanced around the pub, her sanctimonious attitude bothering you to no end as she tsked, “Couldn’t even be bothered to wed in God’s house.”

Your eyes widened. “Who the fuck do you-”

Arthur cut you off. “Alright, Linda. That’s enough.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and led his wife away from you, towards a table tucked into the corner of the pub. 

“Is she always like that?” you asked Thomas, sensing his clear displeasure with the woman. 

“Unfortunately. Used to be a Quaker,” he explained. “Thinks we’re all a bunch of immoral degenerates.”

“Has Arthur’s balls in a fuckin’ vice, too,” John added, glancing over his shoulder as Arthur made his way back through the crowd alone. “Lovely woman, that one.”

Arthur tried to apologize profusely when he reappeared at John’s side, but you brushed it off - wasn’t his fault his wife was a bit of a cunt - and seamlessly fell into an amicable conversation, rocking Georgie every now and then when she fussed. 

Inevitably, the conversation turned to the events of earlier that day.

“And Grace got the letter I left?” Thomas asked, eyeing you from the corner of his eye at the mention of that woman and rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back with his thumb, doing his best to keep your agitation at a minimum.

“Oh, she found it all right,” Arthur answered. “She was fuckin’ livid, Tommy. You shoulda seen it. It was a fuckin’ madhouse when they all realized you weren’t showin’ up.”

“Was fuckin’ entertaining, is what it was,” John added, winking at you playfully as a sense of satisfaction shot through your body and you pursed your lips to stop yourself from laughing. “Screamed her fuckin’ head off at Arthur when he started roundin’ everyone up to leave. Askin’ where you were, askin’ where everyone was goin’. Fuckin’ entertaining, I tell ya.”

You couldn’t help but snicker at that, earning a genuine smile from John. John, sweet John. Ever on your side. You returned his smile easily as you broke into more peels of laughter. You had expected Thomas to look at you with something akin to disappointment in his eyes, but when you met his gaze he only stared at you with unabashed affection in his haunting eyes. Feeling emboldened by his reaction, you commented, “Serves her fucking right.”

And then Thomas was asking Arthur about a Russian contact - because business never took a break - and Thomas was leaving your side after dropping a kiss on your forehead, walking towards a tall, unfamiliar man lingering at the edge of the gathered crowd. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you talked to John and Arthur about the events of that morning - “Tommy looked fuckin’ miserable this morning” and “Tommy figured his shit out just in time” - and cleverly asked for more details about the aftermath of Thomas leaving without outright asking about it. 

He returned after a short while, whispering something to Arthur too low for you to overhear, and he quickly settled himself back against your side, an arm wrapping loosely around your waist. Ada had long since joined the conversation, and by the look in her eyes as she glared at Thomas, you were highly anticipating whatever it was that she was about to say.

“I suppose I should congratulate you on finally getting your head out of your ass, Tom,” she stated before turning to you with a gleeful expression and taking your free hand in hers. “And Nora, I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally have you in the family. I just wish it had been sooner.”

You met Thomas’s gaze and answered, “I think we all wish this had happened years ago, Ada.”

She smiled once more at you, promising to get a drink with you later, and turned on her brother with a menacing expression. “You fuckin’ hurt her again, Tommy, I’ll cut your fuckin’ cock off,” Ada threatened, and you knew fully well that there wasn’t even a shred of a joke in her statement. She meant every word. 

You placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in closer to feign whispering in her ear. “If he does, you’ll need to beat me to it, sister,” you announced loudly enough for everyone within the vicinity to hear you. Ada smiled widely at you - whether from your implied threat against her brother or at the reminder that you were now truly family, you weren’t sure. Thomas raised a brow at you, and you raised a brow in response, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards into an amused smile when he tried to hide his smirk behind his glass of whiskey.

As the night went on, others offered their congratulations and well wishes after welcoming you home to Birmingham, and it almost felt as if you’d never left in the first place. The crowd in the pub had thinned considerably by the time you were sat on Thomas’s lap around one of the tables with Ada, Arthur, John, Michael and Polly. Esme had long since retired for the night after offering to take Georgie off your hands until the morning, and Linda had fucked off to wherever it was she went, you didn’t particularly care. 

It almost reminded you of those nights nearly six years ago when you would join the Shelby siblings for a drink and good company, and the memories of those nights made you smile widely as you relaxed into Thomas’s embrace. 

You could tell he was getting impatient, anxious to get you alone, as his free hand settled on your thigh, fingers gently digging into your clothed flesh. You eyed him coquettishly, your body heating under his haunting gaze as he watched you from the corner of his eye while John told a long-winded story about the Shelby boys as children.

“What do you think, Tommy?” John abruptly asked.

You snorted in amusement when Thomas’s eyes widened slightly, clearly caught not paying attention. “What?”

John, with a lopsided grin, playfully slapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Told ya he wasn’t listenin’ to a thing we said. Too busy makin’ eyes at his bride.”

He patted your hip gently, gesturing for you to stand. “It’s getting late, so if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to take my wife home,” Thomas announced as he stood. He held a hand out to you, “Mrs. Shelby.”

You took his hand in yours with a smile and let him lead you out the Garrison, the raucous cheers and hollers of John and Arthur following you out until the doors closed behind you and trapped the noise within.

You strolled down the familiar streets of Small Heath arm in arm. “I wish I could take you home, to Arrow House,” he began, tone apologetic, “but I told Grace I’d give her a few days to gather her things and have them sent wherever she’s going.”

You leaned your head against his arm as you walked. “That’s okay, Thomas. So long as I’m with you and Georgie, I’ll be happy regardless of where we are. Though,” you said, “I will gladly take this child-free evening with you.” He smiled at you then, dimples and all, and you bit your lip in anticipation of the night ahead of you.

“Are you gonna tell me who that man was that you were speaking with before?” you finally asked, not wanting to walk in silence. “You promised no more secrets, Thomas.”

He nodded. “I know, and I swear I’ll tell you. In the morning. Tonight, though, I’m going to forget about business matters and make love to my wife.”

“Make love?” you asked, a teasing brow raised as you poked at Thomas’s cheek playfully. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband? I’ve never known Thomas Shelby to be a romantic and call it _‘_ _making love_ ’.”

He indulged your teasing, smiling down at you. “Maybe I’m just going to make an effort to be more romantic for you, Mrs. Shelby.”

You snorted in laughter. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Thomas,” you replied, not unkindly. “I mean, you did ask me to marry you in the middle of fucking. Or was it _‘_ _making love_ ’ then, too, Thomas?”

“No, that was fucking,” he admitted bluntly, and your breath caught in your throat at the affection in his gaze as he looked down at you. “But this...tonight feels different.”

You’d arrived at your destination then, and you struggled to hide your surprise when you saw the front door of the flat you had resided in before you left Birmingham. “What are we doing here, Thomas?”

He shrugged, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocking the door. “I kept up the payments after you left. Hoped you’d come home sooner or later, I suppose.” 

You kissed him eagerly as he pushed the door open, stumbling inside. He kicked the door shut without taking his lips off of you, and he lifted you into his arms while your legs wound around him. “Make love to me, Mr. Shelby,” you murmured against his lips.

“Gladly, Mrs. Shelby.”

He’d moved through your once home towards the bedroom, holding you against him tightly as your lips moved hungrily against his. It had hardly taken any time at all to get you stripped of your clothes, hands lingering on each bit of newly exposed skin until you stood naked before one another, and soon he had you pressed into the mattress, his hands and eyes hungrily tracing over each line and curve of your body like a man starved. “You’re fuckin’ breathtaking,” he whispered before pressing a kiss against one of the lines that had marred your stomach since Georgie’s birth.

It felt like hours were spent relearning each other’s bodies that night. You’d traced Thomas’s new scars with your fingers and your tongue, savoring the small moan that escaped him as your tongue trailed along a scar on his abdomen. Thomas had pressed open-mouthed kisses against all of the new marks along your breasts, stomach and thighs that had come with motherhood. You marveled at the way that he breathed your name like a prayer on his lips as you gently sucked on the skin just below his navel, and Thomas delighted in hearing the breathy little moans you made when he dragged his teeth along your neck and collarbone.

And all too soon, your exploration was over and Thomas was hovering above you, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck as he slowly entered you inch by inch and you pulled gently at his hair.

You closed your eyes and sighed softly at the familiar feeling of him inside of you, arching up into him and reveling in the way that your body hummed under his touch after so much time apart. He hadn’t moved, though, so you opened your eyes to look up at him, taken aback by the adoration swirling within his haunting eyes. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “I love you so fuckin’ much, Nora.”

You gripped him by the back of the neck and craned your neck up to kiss him, whispering against his lips, “And I love you, Thomas Shelby.”

He rocked into you then, the deliciously familiar sensation making your head swim. His lips pressed firmly against yours as your hand cupped his cheek, holding him in place as your legs curled around him to drive him deeper within you. You kept yourself anchored to him, holding him close to you and unwilling to let him go ever again, breathing his name against his lips and trying to make the moment last forever. Your efforts were wasted when you tumbled towards that glorious edge, feeling the pleasure coil tighter and tighter within the pit of your stomach until you finally cried out Thomas’s name, arching further into him as he finished deep within you. Breathless and slick with sweat, you clung to him, unwilling to separate from him just yet.

Thomas eventually unwound your tired limbs from his body and rolled onto his back beside you. You fought against the exhaustion that rattled through your body as you curled up next to Thomas, head pillowed on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around you to pull you closer. The room descended into a comfortable silence as you both caught your breath, chests heaving and bodies sated.

“If you could go back to the very beginning and do things differently, what would you do?” you asked curiously, breaking the silence and thrumming your fingers against his chest softly.

Thomas was silent for a moment, his brows knit together in quiet contemplation. You used your thumb to gently trace over his brow, smoothing out the wrinkles as you waited for his answer. “I would have approached you that first night you showed up at the Garrison,” he finally answered, voice lowered. “I would have been sweet on you for a few months - taking you out, giving you little gifts that you would have insisted you didn’t need but liked anyway, learning everything there was to know about you - and then I would’ve asked you to marry me.”

“After only a few months?”

He shrugged. “Better than wasting time like we have. Arthur was right. Tonight was five years later than it should have been.”

“Better late than never,” you offered, trying to stifle a yawn behind your hand. “And who knows, maybe we never would have become the people we are today if things had gone that way, and I think both of us needed to grow up a little, find ourselves before we couldn’t recognize who we were anymore.”

“Maybe,” he agreed noncommittally, his fingers rubbing soothing circles into the flesh of your hips. You yawned again, but this time Thomas took notice. He leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, whispering, “It’s been a long day. You should try to get some sleep before Esme comes bangin’ on the door to return Georgie to us.”

You chuckled, nodding your assent.

You tucked yourself deeper into his side, your body flush with his. The soothing feeling of his touch on your bare hip and the feeling of his constant warmth at your side for the first time in nearly two years quickly lulled you to sleep.

The next morning, you were woken to the sensation of fingers ghosting over your face. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, face warmed by the sunlight streaming through the window across the room. 

Thomas’s fingers curled into the hair at the back of your head, drawing you into his kiss. When he pulled away, he smiled softly at you, his haunting eyes shining brightly, and breathed, “Good morning, Eleanora Shelby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> want a little heartbreakingly beautiful/angsty music for nora/tommy feels? all of the below songs are part of the playlist i listen to when writing this little story so i figured i would share  
> novo amor - keep me  
> novo amor - anchor  
> novo amor - state lines  
> novo amor - embody me  
> vancouver sleep clinic - collapse  
> aquilo - i gave it all  
> amber run - 5am  
> allman brown - ancient light  
> billie eilish - six feet under  
> nilu - are you with me  
> (if you couldn't tell, i'm a big big fan of novo amor)  
> (i would also be highly open to any suggestions to add to my playlist!)


	18. act xiii. where i feel at home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You heard him stifle a laugh as you turned your attention back to your book, and just as you were getting to a good stopping point for the evening, you felt his lips trailing along your shoulder and up your neck. “You look like you’ve made yourself at home,” he commented happily, lips brushing against your earlobe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm pleased with this?

You’d taken tea with the other women of the Shelby family at John and Esme’s home the afternoon following the wedding. The children played and shrieked happily in the other room as you sat with Polly, Esme, Ada and - unfortunately - Linda around a table, keeping an eye on Georgie and the others from the corner of your eye as you sipped at the steaming tea in your cup. When you’d arrived, the women had been discussing the children and the antics of that morning, but since you sat down Esme had been determined to make you and Thomas the topic of conversation.

“You took your time in getting here this afternoon,” she commented with a knowing smirk. “Ada and I had a disagreement about what time we thought you’d get here.”

“Figured you woulda been sick of my brother and eager to see Georgie this morning,” Ada quipped, her displeasure with Thomas still glaringly clear in her voice.

“And I figured you wouldn’t be one to pass up morning sex,” Esme noted. She looked you up and down, smiling victoriously and you felt your cheeks heating. “I can tell I was right just by looking at you. You look like a woman well and thoroughly fucked.”

You snorted, halfway between amused and mortified. Sure, it had never been unusual to discuss you sex life with Esme before you left Birmingham, but it felt strange to speak so frankly about fucking Thomas in front of Polly and Ada. You chanced a glance at them - Polly looked unabashedly amused by the entire conversation while Ada’s lip was curled up slightly in disgust. You laughed.

Esme certainly wasn’t wrong in her observation. Thomas had wasted no time in getting you worked up once you had woken that morning, hands and teeth and tongue teasing you until you were a breathless mess beneath him, and once he’d given you enough time to recover he gripped your hips and pulled you onto him, adjusting you until you were comfortably straddling him. It certainly led to you and Thomas getting out of bed much later than you both had planned.

“It was...an eventful morning. We did just get married, after all,” you finally said, hiding your pleased smile behind your tea as you drank deeply from it. “And add that to the fact that it had been  _ so long _ since the last time Thomas and I....well, yes, it was a  _ very  _ eventful morning.”

“There’s no need to be coy about it now, Nora,” Esme scolded, enjoying the way you flushed and tried to avert your gaze far too much. “We’ve discussed all of the details before.”

“Please, Nora,” Ada begged, reaching for your hand across the table. “Spare me the details. I don’t want to hear about how my brother prefers to fuck you.”

“Anyway he can, really,” you told her, grinning in amusement as her nose scrunched up and she pretended to gag. “He’s very versatile.”

Esme giggled at Ada’s growing reaction of disgust while Linda muttered something under her breath that was too low for you to hear, but based on your first meeting with the woman the night prior, you knew that it was likely some sort of insult at you and perhaps even Esme. You rolled your eyes and shared a look with Esme as Ada desperately tried to change the topic, questioning Polly about the man that had propositioned her at the Garrison after the wedding.

That first day back in Birmingham made it almost seem as if you’d never left in the first place.

The few days after that passed quickly. You spent a majority of your time getting reacquainted with the office, Georgie on your hip or sat on your lap as you reviewed documents for the Shelby Charity Foundation at Thomas’s urging and chatted amicably with Lizzie and Esme when you grew bored. Thomas, on the other hand, was tracking down the right people to make your marriage legal after not having the correct paperwork filed - or, he had the paperwork ready to be filed, but the last minute change of brides had supposedly stumped the officials working in the registry office. 

At the end of the third day, Thomas returned to the office and announced that it was finally time to take you home to Arrow House.

The drive through Warwickshire was quaint, and you could see the appeal of living outside of the bustle of the city. It especially seemed like an ideal place to raise Georgie, with plenty of space for her to roam and to grow without constantly looking over her shoulder as you so often had to as a young woman in Birmingham.

Your mouth dropped open in surprise as you pulled into the drive leading up to the house. “That isn’t a house, Thomas. It looks like a small fucking castle,” you commented as he parked in front of the house.

He gripped your hand in his as you joined him outside of the car, smiling at you as he said, “Welcome home, Nora.”

An older woman stood just outside of the door of the manor, waiting patiently as the three of you approached. “Mr. Shelby,” she greeted. 

“Mary,” Thomas returned her greeting curtly, and before the woman had the chance to speak again Thomas started questioning her on matters of the house. “Has the other staff been notified of our arrival? Has the nursery been prepared?”

“Yes, but Mr. Shelby, you should know-”

He cut her off, continuing his long strides into the house as you and trailed behind him with Georgie squirming restlessly at her unfamiliar surroundings. “And have applications for the open nanny position been received? Pass those along to Nora, please. She’ll be in charge of interviewing the candidates.”

“Mr. Shelby,” the woman, Mary, attempted as you strolled through the foyer, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the opulence of the house that was now yours. “Miss Burgess is-”

“Tommy?” You stepped faltered when you heard her call Thomas’s name. Wasn’t she supposed to be long gone by now? You looked to Thomas for any indication that he knew what was going on.

“Grace?” He looked just as confused as you felt, his brows pulled together and eyes slightly narrowed. “What are you doing here? The staff informed me all of your things had been removed yesterday. There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“I wanted to speak with you, Tommy. About the other day. You at least owe me an explanation,” she argued, her eyes tellingly settling on you as you stepped up beside Thomas. Her eyes softened slightly as she observed Georgie in your arms, head turning back and forth as she curiously took in her new surroundings. “Is this Georgiana? She looks so much like you, Tommy. Has your eyes.” 

Boldly, the woman reached a hand out towards one of Georgie’s errant curls, but you caught her wrist and gripped it like a vice, stopping her before she could lay a hand on her. “Don’t touch my daughter.” She struggled against your tight grip, and after a moment you let her go, biting back a smirk as she stumbled slightly. “As Thomas said, you have no reason to be here. Leave. Now.”

She glanced at you with surprise written across her features before turning her gaze on Thomas. “Are you really going to let her speak to me like that, Tommy?”

“I won’t muzzle my wife, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Wife?” she asked, a hurt look in her eyes that reminded you so much of the look that you saw in your own eyes every time you looked into a mirror for the past years. 

You scoffed. “Leave, Miss Burgess. Thomas and I have things to do yet today.”

“Tommy, I just want to talk to you about the wedding,” she said, voice almost pleading. 

When she reached out to Thomas, you stepped closer to him, preventing her from touching him. “Miss Burgess, you need to leave.” You stared her in the eyes, but she was showing no sign of backing down. “Thomas and I have things to do, and you being here is preventing that. You see, as soon as you leave, I’m going to put my daughter down for a nap, pick one of the many rooms in the house and…” 

You trailed off and shifted Georgie to your other hip, closer to Thomas, before addressing him, “Thomas, cover Georgie’s ears, would you? She’s in the phase where she repeats everything, and we don’t need her running about the house screaming cock and fuck at everyone.” He looked at you with a mixture of amusement and confusion but did as you asked. “Good.” 

You turned back to the other woman, continuing, “As I was saying, I’m going to put my daughter down for a nap, pick one of the many rooms in this house, and suck my husband's cock in that room. Then, I’ll let Thomas pick one of the many other rooms in this house, and he’ll fuck me in whatever room he picked until I can’t fucking walk straight. So please, kindly get the fuck out of my house so we can get on with our busy,  _ busy  _ day.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, scoffing indignantly at you. She looked to Thomas, seeking his help, but he merely shrugged. He looked entirely unbothered by the entire ordeal but you could see the amusement - and maybe a little bit of wanting - shining in his eyes when he gave you a sideways glance. “I’m not about to argue with my wife if she wants to suck my cock, Grace.”

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and coat. “You owe me more of an explanation than just a letter, Tommy,” she told him once again before turning on her heel and storming out, the sound of the door shutting behind her echoing in the vast foyer. It was silent for a moment as you and Thomas stared at one another, neither of you quite sure what to say. 

And then Georgie looked over your shoulder, waved in the direction of the door and blabbered, “Bye bye!”

You laughed, unable to help yourself. “God, that felt so fucking good!” you admitted excitedly before swallowing some of that excitement when you turned to face Thomas. “I’m sorry. I know that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he ran his hands up and down your arms soothingly, a look of concern in his eyes rather than a look of disappointment. “How are you?”

“Honestly?” you asked, a brow raised. “I feel fucking great. That was absolutely fucking liberating, Thomas.”

“I thought Georgie’s in the phase of repeating things she hears?” he asked, smirking in amusement, and your heart stuttered when you saw his dimples that so rarely made an appearance.

“Oh, she certainly is. I’m sure you’ll learn shortly that her vocabulary is far more vulgar than it should be for an eighteen month old child. She’s certainly your daughter,” you teased, pressing a kiss to your daughter’s forehead as she began to play with your hair. “And to answer your question, I needed to at least pretend to be a decent mother in front of that woman.”

“You’re a fantastic mother,” Thomas reassured, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he started to lead you through the foyer. “Now, we have a tour to finish, and you need to decide what room you’d prefer to suck my cock in.”

You swatted playfully at him without jostling Georgie too much, enjoying the sound of his laughter as he angled his body away from you, and you made sure to keep a mental list of preferred rooms as you went.

Hours later, long after your earlier plans of sucking Thomas’s cock and getting fucked had been carried out and after Georgie had been settled in the nursery for the night, Thomas had closed himself in his office to handle some business related to the Russians. 

After a relaxing bath, you’d settled yourself in the drawing room on the sofa, back against the side and legs stretched out on the open expanse of the sofa before you. You sat in front of the fireplace with a well-loved book and a glass of your favorite whiskey, enjoying the warmth rolling off of the crackling fire as you read. The sun had long since set and exhaustion was tugging at you, urging you to call it a night and retire to bed, but you were determined to wait up for Thomas. 

You weren’t left waiting too long, having read only forty-some pages before you heard the sound of his office door swinging open. You heard his uncharacteristically heavy footfalls as he approached, and soon you could smell his familiar scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey and feel his haunting gaze on you, watching you intently.

“Are you just going to stand there and look at me, or are you going to join me?” you finally asked after a couple minutes of silence, casting a quick glance over your shoulder at him. He leaned against the wooden doorframe, hands in his pockets, a smile on his face, and a softness to his gaze that made a blush creep along your skin from head to toe. 

You heard him stifle a laugh as you turned your attention back to your book, and just as you were getting to a good stopping point for the evening, you felt his lips trailing along your shoulder and up your neck. “You look like you’ve made yourself at home,” he commented happily, lips brushing against your earlobe as he spoke. 

You sighed as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss against your neck and his arm wrapped around your middle, hand splaying across your stomach. “I still think it’s entirely too large for our family, but I have no doubt Georgie and I will be happy here.” You bit your lip as his hand on your stomach dipped lower, lower, lower until it was between your legs, fingers rubbing circles over you through your nightgown. “I do have one favor to ask though.”

“What is that, hm?” he hummed, the feeling of it sending vibrations against your skin as he kissed along your jaw. “Anything for you.”

You tilted your head back, giving him easier access to you from his spot knelt behind you. “I want to burn the sheets,” you told him.

His ministrations came to a stuttering stop. “What?”

“You heard me,” you answered, tapping his hand in a silent demand to continue what he had been doing. “I want to burn the sheets. I don’t want any trace of that woman in my house.”

He was silent for a moment, and then, “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” you assured. You twisted in your seat to face him. “I can send Mary to town tomorrow to get new sheets.” 

He hummed his agreement and moved to sit beside you on the loveseat, taking you legs in his hands and settling them on his lap once he was seated. 

You took the opportunity to finish you reading for the evening, setting your book down once you had marked your place. You gazed at him, studying his profile while he stared at the gradually dying fire and absentmindedly rubbed small circles into the skin of your ankle with his thumb. He truly was incredibly handsome, unfairly so. 

“You know,” you spoke up, knocking him for his thoughts. His haunting gaze found yours, somehow looking even more haunting with the fire reflected within his eyes. “While you were showing me and Georgie around the house, I made a list of rooms I’d like to be fucked in.”

That caught his attention, and he raised a brow at you. “Is that right?”

You nodded and sucked your lower lip between your teeth. “This room is included on that list, Thomas,” you told him with a singsong voice.

“So that wasn’t you just antagonizing Grace this afternoon?”

“Oh, no,” you informed him. “It was absolutely me just antagonizing her, but I realized that the size of this house has its perks. You could fuck me in a new room every night for weeks, and I intend to do just that. Starting with this room.”

His touch grew more heated then as his hand ghosted along the skin of your leg, pushing your nightgown up as he went. His smile turned wolfish as he rearranged your legs until he was able to crawl between then. “Whatever you’d like, Mrs. Shelby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nora to grace - 'begone thot'


	19. act xiv. like you’re made of glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ringing in your ears made it impossible to think, to feel, to hear. So instead, you watched. You watched, frozen in place, as John and Arthur rushed the man. You watched the other patrons run for cover. You watched as Polly shouted at you, unable to make sense of what she was trying to say.

In the months that followed your move to Arrow House, you had started to get settled into life in Birmingham again. You had hired a kind, middle-aged nanny for Georgie, you spent most of yours days handling business for the Shelby Charity Foundation at Thomas’s urging, and at least twice a week you would find your way to the Garrison at the end of business hours for a drink and good company. 

And things with Thomas were better than they had ever been. He wasn’t keeping things from you anymore, whether it be related to business (both legal and illegal), his occasional nightmares, or family matters. He was making an active effort to be home often and involved in Georgie’s life when business allowed, and watching him look at her in wonder every time she did something new made your heart flutter happily. And the sex...well, that was as good as it had always been, and it hadn’t taken you long to cross off every room on the mental list you’d made that first day at Arrow House.

But with your new sense of happy normalcy, there inevitably had been a few brief interruptions.

There were some nights that your old insecurities would resurface, and you’d be left at home wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. (Would he come home smelling of another woman’s perfume, would he come home with another woman’s lipstick smeared on the skin of his neck, would he come home and pretend that nothing had happened).

There had been three instances in the three months since you married him that Thomas would come home and find you sitting on the floor in the kitchen, back pressed against a wall with a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling precariously in your loose grip. 

The first time had been when, after three weeks, he finally agreed to meet up with Grace and provide an explanation - the same fucking explanation that was in the letter he had left her - for embarrassing her and leaving her at the altar. Knowing their history, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking the absolute worst when Thomas didn’t make it home in time to say goodnight to Georgie before you put her down for the night. You’d grabbed the first bottle of whiskey you could find - it certainly hadn’t been your favorite - and stumbled through the house looking for a quiet corner to sit and drown in your thoughts.

Thomas came home that night and entered through the door in the kitchen rather than the main entrance, his shoes caked with mud and smelling of horse, only to find you sat against the wall, stinking of whiskey and crying silently.

“Hey, love, look at me,” he urged, haunting eyes flooded with concern as he took in your red, swollen eyes and the fresh tear tracks on your cheeks. “What’s wrong, love?”

You’d struggled to tell him why you were crying, both from nerves and from the whiskey, and he simply sat on the floor with you, taking your hand in his and tracing soothing circles over your palm as he patiently waited for you to tell him what had you in such a state. When you finally did, he took your face between his hands, looked you straight in the eyes, those haunting eyes so sweet and genuine, and promised you that absolutely nothing had happened. 

He carried you up to bed that night and held you tightly, whispering reassurances into the small space between you and him late into the night until you finally fell asleep tucked into his side.

The second time had been after you met the Russian woman he was working with. The Duchess. She was a beautiful woman, you knew that, and she certainly held that wild quality that appealed to Thomas. And then suddenly, on a night that he worked particularly late due to a meeting with the Duchess, you couldn’t help when your anxieties and insecurities started gnawing at your insides once again. 

You weren’t sure what time it was when he finally returned home, though it had to be well past midnight and into the early morning. He had come through the main entrance that night, and after realizing you hadn’t been in bed, he found you sat against the wall in the kitchen, a bottle of your favorite whiskey - never again would you drink whatever it had been that first time - at your side. 

He hadn’t even asked what was wrong that time. Instead, he quietly sat down next to you and took your hand in his, rubbing those now familiar soothing circles against your palm until you had finally told him what was wrong. 

He carried you up to bed as the sun was beginning to rise, and he had made the rare decision to stay in bed with you that day rather than going into the office, hidden beneath the blankets and whispering his reassurances to you between kisses until you’d sprinted from bed, head pounding and stomach churning. (He’d even stayed at your side then, holding your hair away from your face as you heaved and emptied your stomach). 

The third time had been after the Shelby Charity Foundation dinner. The Duchess - Tatiana, you had since learned, was her name - had been in attendance, and you saw first hand the way she looked at your husband with unconcealed wanting. It probably wouldn’t have bothered you - she certainly wasn’t the first, nor would she be the last woman to look at Thomas that way - but then she blatantly admitted to you that her uncle had asked her to seduce Thomas to gain more information out of him, and she certainly had no qualms about attempting to do what her uncle asked.

("Your husband is a handsome man," she had told you, as if you hadn't already known. "And in my experience, handsome men have a weakness for beautiful women, regardless of if they have a beautiful wife at home or not.")

You had excused yourself then, trying your best to keep your mind off of your rising insecurities by mingling with the potential donors and other important individuals that Thomas had specifically pointed out to you when you made the invite list for the event. It worked, for a time. But then you had seen the Duchess and Thomas in a heated discussion from across the room and your insecurities had reached their breaking point. You retreated into yourself, speaking only when spoken to and avoiding Thomas’s haunting gaze for the rest of the evening. The drive home had been eerily quiet, and once you finally arrived back at Arrow House, he closed himself in his office while you had hidden yourself away in the kitchen, sat against the wall with the now customary bottle of whiskey. 

You hadn’t been there long before he found you - he always found you - and sat beside you in silence, pulling the bottle of whiskey from your hands.

Finally, he sighed. “You gotta help me out here, Nora. I don’t know how…” he trailed off and stared down at his clasped hands. “Tell me how to make you stop feeling like this. Please, Nora. Just tell me.”

He took your hand in his, rubbing those soothing circles into your palm once again while he waited for you to respond. “I just...I don’t know, Thomas. It’s not your fault,” you told him, voice quiet. But wasn’t it? You only felt this way because of all of the times he’d made you doubt his fidelity and all of the times he’d made you  _ doubt yourself _ . You bit back the rising nausea and continued, “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to stop feeling this way. I just don’t fucking know, Thomas.”

“Nora, look at me,” he urged. When you didn’t, his hand gently curled under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his haunting eyes. “I love you, Eleanora, and I made promises to you when you agreed to marry me. I’m not gonna break those promises, love.”

Your eyes scanned his face, looking for any sign of insincerity, but - like the other nights that he had found you, drunk and crying on the floor of the kitchen - you couldn’t find any. You pressed your lips to his, slow and soft at first. He wasted no time in pulling you onto his lap, bottle of whiskey forgotten and kisses growing heated, desperate. (You, desperate to feel his touch, his love, to remind you that it was you he was coming home to you, you that he was taking to bed every night. Him, desperate to tell you what he wasn’t able to tell you with words, desperate to reassure you that he wanted no one else but you, you and Georgie and his life in the countryside no matter how many women propositioned him).

He kissed away the uncertainty and the insecurities that had settled deeply within you. He breathed your name against your lips as you rocked your hips against him, above him. He took you to bed that night after you’d cried his name into the skin of his shoulder, trying your damnedest to muffle the noise and not wake any of the staff, knowing it would scandalize them if they sleepily stumbled upon the woman of the house riding her husband on the kitchen floor. He laid with you in bed, staring at you with those haunting eyes as his fingers combed through your hair. He whispered his promise to you, over and over and over again, until you finally felt like yourself again.

And almost as if those nights had never happened, your life went on as normal. You would kiss Georgie goodbye in the morning before you left to go to the office, assist Michael with various accounts and review donor statements with Thomas, chat with Lizzie and Esme about trivial things throughout the day, have tea with Polly in the afternoon, and head to the Garrison at the end of the day for a drink and good company.

The next interruption hadn’t come from your linger insecurities. Instead, it came from a bullet meant for Thomas.

You’d been at the Garrison, watching the Shelby boys discuss Arthur’s recent absences from both family meetings and evenings at the pub - apparently an increasing occurrence since he married Linda - while you stood slightly separated from them with Polly, prying for details about the man who she had commissioned to paint her portrait, the very same man that had propositioned her the night of the wedding, and it all seemed so blissfully normal.

And then in the span of a minute, your new sense of normalcy was shattered. Polly was asking you invasive questions and prodding at you and telling you to put your drink down; John was getting worked up a few tables away because of something Arthur had said; and a man was bursting through the doors of the Garrison, shouting at Thomas and pointing a pistol at him.

You held your breath as the man pulled the trigger, wanting nothing more than to go to Thomas as the crack of the gun being fired drowned out all sound in the pub. 

The ringing in your ears made it impossible to think, to feel, to hear. So instead, you watched.  You watched, frozen in place, as John and Arthur rushed the man. You watched the other patrons run for cover. You watched as Polly shouted at you, unable to make sense of what she was trying to say.

Finally, you scanned the pub for Thomas. Your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him, braced against one of the pillars and staring towards the door of the pub and the man that had shot at him.

“Thomas!” you called, stumbling towards him frantically as the crowd dispersed in every direction, away from any further danger. You ignored the ache in your body and the sudden, overwhelming lightheadedness as you gripped his forearms, looking him over for any obvious signs of injury. Your brows knit together in confusion when you found none. “Thomas? Are you okay?” You tried to get his attention, but his haunting eyes didn’t lift to meet yours. 

Instead, he was looking down at you with an expression of horror on his face, and you followed his line of sight, glancing down to spot a bloom of red staining your dress. You pressed a trembling hand to your stomach, mouth falling open in shock when your hand came away soaked in blood. When had that happened? How had you not noticed it before?

“Thomas?” you whispered his name as if asking a question, asking if this was real, asking if this was your blood. Your eyes grew wide as you stumbled forward, crashing into him when your legs gave out.

He caught you in his embrace. “Someone call a fuckin’ ambulance!” he ordered, his haunting eyes never leaving yours.

“Thomas,” you breathed, knuckles turning white as you gripped his arms tightly.

Your vision was spotted with white as Thomas gently lowered you to the ground, hands pressing frantically over the bleeding wound. “Keep your eyes on me, love,” he urged, something in his voice you had only rarely heard before. Fear. “Look at me. Look at me, Nora. Focus on me.” He gripped your chin in his hand gently yet firmly, forcing you to look at him. “Eleanora, hey. Love, I’m right here. Focus.”

You squeezed his arm weakly. “Thomas, our baby,” you croaked, shivering at the cold that was seeping into your limbs. “Our baby.”

His haunting eyes, full of concern and fear and anger and confusion, settled on yours. “Georgie’s okay, Nora. She’s home with the nanny. She’s okay. Georgie’s okay,” he tried to reassure, adding, “And you’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, and we’ll get to go home to our baby, to our Georgie.”

You tried to shake your head at him, to tell him he wasn’t understanding, but you felt so goddamn weak. “No, Thomas.” You slid your hand over his, the warmth of your fresh blood shocking your cold fingers. “Our baby,” you whispered, unable to muster a voice any loud. “Our baby. Our baby, Thomas.”

A look of sudden realization crossed Thomas’s face, his eyes frantic, and the pressure of his hands on your abdomen increased as he shouted, “Where’s the fuckin' ambulance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry
> 
> small interlude coming up next


	20. interlude vi. given the chance to break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sat there for what felt like hours, Ada a silent companion in his misery. Maybe it really had been hours. He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that he was minutes away from barging through the doors that separated you from him and tracking down someone - anyone really - that would give him some fucking answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively: angst via tommy shelby's thoughts

Not knowing was the worst part.

Not knowing if you’d heard him when he told you over and over that he loved you. Not knowing if you’d recover from what was done to you. Fuck, not knowing if you’d even survive after it all.

Not knowing you had even been pregnant, though...that was like a fucking knife to the heart. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was your paling face as you whispered, over and over and over - _‘ our baby, our baby, our baby_ ’.

He hadn’t even thought anything of it at first - _‘ our baby, our baby, our baby_ ’ - because Georgie was safe at home, more than likely sleeping and entirely oblivious to the suffering of her mother in a way that only a child could be.

And then you’d put your hand on his, your eyes pleading for him to understand - _‘ our baby, our baby, our baby_ ’ - and the realization of what you’d been trying to tell him…

He punched the wall in front of him, not caring that the skin of his knuckles had cracked and started to bleed. He would feel the pain of his actions in the morning, but in that moment all he wanted were some fucking answers.

Not knowing was the worst part.

A gentle hand on his shoulder dragged him out of his thoughts. “Tommy, you should go home. Get some sleep. Check on your daughter,” Pol urged. “I’ll stay here and-”

“I’m not fuckin’ leaving her, Pol,” he bit out with malice. “I won’t do it.”

Her gaze softened in understanding, but she still pressed. “Then at least sit down. Your pacing isn’t going to help anyone.”

He turned to glare at her and opened his mouth to argue, but he thought better of it. With a sigh, he begrudgingly took a seat. He’d never really been the type to fidget - you were, he thought solemnly - but as he sat there, waiting and hoping and silently praying to a god he wasn’t even sure he believed in, he couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing or his fingers from nervously picking at the skin around his nails. 

Your voice echoed in his head as the silence mocked him, hearing you but being unable to see you, to touch you, to smell the achingly familiar scent of lavender that clung to your skin after baths...it was driving him fucking mad. 

_‘ Our baby, our baby, our baby._ ’

“Did you know?” he finally asked, his eyes fixated on his hands, your blood now dried on his skin. “About the baby?”

It was silent for a moment, and then, “Who do you think told her she was pregnant?”

“Maybe you’re wrong.” Maybe he won’t need to mourn two lives if…

“I wasn’t wrong last time, and I’m not wrong this time.”

He lit a cigarette, inhaling the burning tobacco, the sensation igniting his nerves and soothing them all at once, and tipped his head back, resting it against the cold wall of the hospital. 

“She’s strong, Tommy. She’ll pull through,” Pol tried to reassure him, but it only caused his anger - anger at the man that had fired the bullet, anger at the man who had ordered the hit, anger at himself for not being the one to actually be fucking shot, anger at Pol for irritating him when all he wanted was to fucking think and clear his head, anger at you for not seeking cover as soon as you saw the fucking gun - to swell inside of him.

“You don’t fuckin’ know that, Pol!” he shouted at her, not missing the way she jerked away from him, startled. “You don’t fuckin’ know.”

Not knowing was the worst part. 

Pol left his side then, returning to the others that patiently waited further away from him, distraught expressions on all of their faces. John, Esme, Arthur, Michael, and even fucking Linda had shown up not long after Tommy had arrived with you by ambulance, and none seemed willing to leave until they had word on your condition. 

He waited and waited and waited, gaze flickering towards the doors that separated him from you every now and then. And still, no one emerged from those doors with any answers for him.

Tommy could feel the exhaustion in his body, could feel it tugging at him, but he needed to stay awake. He couldn’t take even a moment to rest when you were beyond those doors fighting for your life and the little life inside of you.

Eventually, he felt rather than saw someone sit down next to him. He didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. “Ada,” he greeted flatly, his chin rested on his clasped hands as he stared at the wall opposite him.

“Pol called. I came as fast as I could,” she said. “Have you heard anything yet?”

“No.”

“I’m sure they’ll have some sort of news for us soon,” she said, her tone not nearly as optimistic as her words. “Nora’s strong, Tom.” His sister patted his hand gently. “I’m sure she’ll pull through.”

“Why does everyone keep fuckin’ saying that like I don’t know? She’s my fuckin’ wife. I know she’s strong. I fuckin’ know, Ada.” His voice wavered, slightly breaking as he tried not to think about how _weak_ you’d looked in his arms, bleeding and pale. 

_‘ Our baby, our baby, our baby._ ’

“Tom, I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I-”

“She’s pregnant, Ada. Nora’s pregnant and I don’t know if…” he trailed off, fighting back a sob. “We’ve already lost...we can’t…” He dragged his hand across his face, trying to ease the pressure of unshed tears behind his eyes. “We can’t go through that again, Ada. _I can’t_.”

He recalled the denial he had felt four years ago after you had lost the little life that neither of you had known about until it had already been taken from you. 

At first, it was denial that he was even the father, knowing that you’d slept with John not long before, but Pol had been adamant. Too far along, she had told him after she’d grown sick of how aloof he had been acting about the entire ordeal. She’d even asked him if he wanted to know whether it had been a boy or a girl - she knew, of course she fucking did - but he just...couldn’t.

He’d gone to you that night, drunk and with bloody knuckles after he had John and Arthur track down one of the men that had beaten you, abused you, violated you. That night, his denial had shifted entirely. That night, it was denial that something that had been a little piece of you and a little piece of him could be taken away so easily, could be mourned so deeply when he hadn’t even known about it until it was too late.

And then, despite all of the trauma you’d suffered, Georgie - his sweet, little Georgiana with his eyes and your smile - came along. 

His mind wandered to everything that he had missed last time, when you had been pregnant with Georgie. He never got to see you grow heavy and round as his child grew inside of you. He never got to feel Georgie kick within you, restless as she got bigger and stronger. He never got to you with that pregnant glow that women never shut up about.

And now, even with the chance to be there this time, the chance to experience everything that he had missed with your first pregnancy - second, a traitorous voice in his head reminded him - dangling right in front of him, he was at risk of having that chance ripped from his grip and set aflame.

All because of a fucking bullet meant for him.

He shut his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, tried to ignore the image of you bleeding in his arms that floated around his mind, tried to ignore the creeping feeling of guilt within him because, really...it was his fault that you’d been shot in the first place, wasn’t it?

With a bullet meant for him.

“Pol told me, said it’s early days,” Ada spoke up from beside him, pulling him back to the present, away from his self-loathing. “Nora’s not so far along. Maybe everything’ll be fine. Maybe the baby-”

“I don’t want to think about what ifs and maybes, Ada. I just want fuckin’ answers.”

Not knowing was the worst part.

He sat there for what felt like hours, Ada a silent companion in his misery. Maybe it really had been hours. He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that he was minutes away from barging through the doors that separated you from him and tracking down someone - anyone really - that would give him some fucking answers.

At least, of everyone there, Ada could understand how he felt. Ada, his wife’s closest confidant. Ada, his wife’s protector when he hadn’t been, when he couldn't be. Ada, his wife’s very best friend.

Tommy knew that you had been there for Ada in some of the most difficult times of her life - during her lonely pregnancy, when Freddie had been arrested, when Freddie had died. Tommy also knew that Ada had been there for you in some of the most difficult times of your life since you’d come to the Garrison as a bright-eyed nineteen-year-old - when your uncle, your last living family this side of the Atlantic had died, when Tommy had hurt you over and over again and you eventually left him, during your lonely pregnancy.

He and Ada might not have had the best relationship over the past five years, but Tommy would always be grateful that you’d had her when you couldn’t rely on him to be there for you.

“Thank you, Ada,” he whispered.

He could feel Ada’s gaze on him, questioning and then understanding. She patted his hand again and said, “You’re welcome, Tom.”

And again, he waited and waited and waited, but this time, he had Ada’s reassuring presence to keep him from getting lost in his head, from thinking of the worst possibilities. And yet, he still couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that it had been hours, and he had yet to hear anything about you from a single fucking person at that hospital.

Not knowing was the worst part.

Finally - _fucking finally_ \- an older man emerged from the doors that you had disappeared behind upon arrival. “Mr. Shelby.”

Three sets of eyes turned to the man. 

Tommy stood abruptly, catching the man’s attention, and he could feel his growing panic clawing at his throat as the doctor approached him. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and all he could do was wait for the doctor to speak.

In his place, Ada asked, “How is she?”

The man regarded Ada with dark eyes before looking at him. “Your wife is lucky, Mr. Shelby,” the doctor finally told him. “She made it through surgery with little issue. The bullet nearly missed all of her vital organs. She did have some damage to her liver, but that’ll heal in time.”

“And what about her recovery?” Ada questioned, still holding Tommy’s hand tightly, the concern for her friend, for his wife, for _you_ clear in her voice. 

The doctor prattled on about the details of your recovery - what would be expected at home after you were discharged, what you would be unable to do for the time being, what you would need to do to ensure a full recovery - but Tommy was hardly paying any attention. His thoughts were beyond those doors, on you and how you had looked in his arms, bleeding and pale, and yet you were strong, resilient, so beautifully _alive_.

“She’ll likely not wake for some time yet,” the doctor said, catching his attention again, “but you’re free to go in and sit with her, Mr. Shelby. I can take you there now.”

Ada thanked the doctor before he turned to walk away, but Tommy stood frozen in place. Ada elbowed him lightly in the side, urging him to go.

Your voice in his head was deafening - ‘ _our baby, our baby, our baby_ ’ - and he called out for the doctor’s attention. “What about the baby?” he asked, voice low and hopeful.

The doctor turned to address him, exhaling a deep breath before stating, “Mr. Shelby, perhaps you should take a seat.”

Not knowing was the worst part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna let this simmer and try to post the next part by friday evening (cst), maybe?


	21. act xv. and if you're still breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relief instantly seeped through your entire body, but it was short lived when you saw his conflicted - pained, even - expression. “What aren’t you telling me, Thomas? I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.” You lifted a hand to his face, tracing along his jaw with your fingers. “No secrets, Thomas. Especially not about this. Please,” you pleaded, worry quickly replacing the brief relief you’d felt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 100% filler

Unlike your last stay in a hospital, you hadn’t been visited by specters of your long dead family. 

Instead, the scene at the Garrison replayed over and over and over in your head. The first time it happened, you felt as if you were at the pictures, watching from the audience as everything unfolded in slow motion. You watched in horror as the bullet pierced your abdomen, a bright bloom of red quickly staining the dress you’d worn to the office that day. You watched in horror as you, in the haze of the panic and the rush of adrenaline, had completely ignored the way your body had slightly pitched back on impact in favor of seeking out Thomas. You watched in horror as you collapsed into Thomas’s arms, the color draining from your face as your blood drained from the wound on your abdomen, seeping through Thomas’s hands as he tried to put pressure on the wound, to stop the bleeding. You watched in horror, heartbreaking into the pieces you’d so painstakingly put back together over the past year, as you tried to find the words to tell Thomas what Polly had told you only moments before, to tell him about the baby that you carried inside of you.

The scene played on repeat in your head, and each time you noticed new details - whether real or imagined - of what had happened. Thomas’s tears as he held you to him, ordering someone to call an ambulance for the third time. Polly rushing over to assist Thomas, trying to stop the bleeding the best she could with a cloth that Harry had given her. Thomas’s haunting gaze flickering back and forth between your near lifeless body on the floor of the Garrison and his hands stained red with your blood. John and Arthur beating the man responsible for shooting you, beating him until he was bloody and as lifeless as you.

And then, it stopped.

Your limbs felt like they had been weighed down with lead and your body felt as if it were aflame with an ache deeper than you had ever felt before. Your eyes were slow to open, slow to take in your unfamiliar surroundings, slow to take in the sight of your husband asleep at your bedside, his head rested low on your stomach and a hand clasping yours tightly. You steadily raised your other hand, trembling slightly from the limb’s resistance to being moved, and rested it atop his head, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Thomas,” you groaned hoarsely, trying to coax him awake but unable to raise your voice any louder. “Thomas.”

His eyes snapped open, relief clear in their haunting depths. “Nora,” he breathed your name like a prayer before standing and inching closer, his free hand ghosting over your face, tracing your features as if to ensure that you were really, truly there. He pressed a soft kiss to your brow, your cheek, and finally your lips. “Hello, lovely girl. How are you feeling?”

You raised a brow. “Like a was just shot, Thomas.”

He averted his gaze, looking guilty. He sat back down in the chair at your bedside, still tightly clasping your hand, anchoring you, anchoring him to the fact that you were really here, that you were really alive. You didn’t miss the way his other hand settled low on your stomach, where his head had been as he slept only moments ago.

“Thomas, is the baby…” you trailed off, unable to even ask the question aloud. You had only just learned that there _ even was a baby _ when the gun was fired, when you were shot instead of Thomas. “Thomas, please.”

He took a deep breath, nodding. “The baby is fine,” he informed you, and you let out the breath you’d been holding. 

Relief instantly seeped through your entire body, but it was short lived when you saw his conflicted - pained, even - expression. “What aren’t you telling me, Thomas? I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.” You lifted a hand to his face, tracing along his jaw with your fingers. “No secrets, Thomas. Especially not about this. Please,” you pleaded, worry quickly replacing the brief relief you’d felt. 

“You might not…” he trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face. “You might still lose the baby, Nora.” You sank further into the stiff hospital mattress and swallowed, waiting for him to continue, for him to explain. He got the hint when you remained silent. “They said that the...the wound was high enough to not affect the baby, but the stress on your body from the injury might…” He took another deep, shaky breath. “They said it could be weeks, maybe even months before it’s no longer a risk.” 

You nodded, digesting the hard to swallow information. You had to at least be thankful that it was only a risk, not a guarantee that you’d lose this baby too. Needing to distract yourself from those thoughts, you asked, “Do you know who did it?” He looked up at you, unsure. “No secrets, Thomas.”

“It was the Italians,” he answered after a moment. “Changretta ordered a hit on me.”

“Why?”

“Business,” he answered vaguely. 

You pursed your lips and looked at him with a displeased expression etched across your face. “Thomas,” you warned.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat and lighting a cigarette. “John insulted him, threatened him. I don’t know the fuckin’ particulars. Might’ve had the boys burn down some of his businesses.”

“Might’ve, Thomas?”

“Aye, might’ve.” You watched the end of his cigarette burn brightly as he inhaled. He exhaled and added nonchalantly, “I have the boys looking for him and his family.” He met your gaze, anger burning brightly within those haunting depths. “I’m going to kill him, Nora.”

You nodded, your hand settling over your still flat stomach where you knew your baby - another little piece of him and a little piece of you - was fighting for their little life within you. “Do what needs to be done, Thomas.”

You were discharged after a few days in the hospital, and though the staff had argued against the decision at first, Thomas had assured them he would have a private physician out to the house to check on you daily during your recovery.

You were more than happy to leave. You wanted to go home to Georgie, to hold your daughter as you tried to ignore the deep seated worry that you could wake up any morning with bloody thighs and an empty womb. You wanted to go home to your bed, the bed that you shared with Thomas and could hide away from all of your fears beneath the covers, held in his arms. You wanted to go home to your things, to your sense of familiarity that had been stripped from you the moment you were brought to that damn hospital. You just wanted to go home.

A majority of your time once home was spent in bed with a book, and occasionally Georgie and Thomas would join you, giving you much needed company during your bedrest. Every so often you would even manage to convince Thomas to assist you down the stairs to the drawing room so you could sit in your spot in front of the fireplace, reading while he worked in his office late into the night and enjoying your slowly returning sense of familiarity. 

You’d had plenty of visitors during those weeks.

John and Esme had come by numerous times with the children so that Georgie could play with her cousins, running circles around the house while you and Esme watched them carefully and John and Thomas discussed business in Thomas’s office. 

Michael had come by with your work that had been abandoned at the office, and though Thomas hadn’t been pleased with the notion of you doing anything other than resting and remaining relatively stress-free for the baby, you had managed to convince him that leaving your work to pile up was going to give you more stress than actually working. 

Arthur had come by sans Linda - for which you would be eternally grateful for - to discuss business with Thomas and to entertain Georgie while you made sure Thomas took time to actually eat that afternoon. You’d known that he was in the midst of tracking down Vicente Changretta and his wife before they fled the country, had known that Angel Changretta had already been dealt with, had known that he was running himself ragged as he sought revenge against the man that had hurt you and almost cost you the life of your unborn child. Arthur was happy to assist you, gladly taking Georgie off your hands when you tried to get Thomas to take care of himself. 

Ada had even made a habit of making the drive up from London with Karl to spend days at a time at Arrow House. When Thomas was gone for business - whether it was related to actual business matters or related to hunting down the Changrettas - her company was a godsend. 

You and Ada would often spend warm, rain-free days outside basking in the summer sun while Georgie chased Karl around the lawn, giggling and shrieking happily each time she nearly caught him. Ada had made sure that you followed all of the recovery instructions that had been provided before your discharge from the hospital, and you often trailed the children around, walking arm in arm and discussing everything from life in London to Linda’s near unbearable attitude towards you and Thomas to Georgie’s upcoming second birthday. 

Polly continued to come by for tea on the usual days, and you spent the afternoons discussing her budding interest in the man painting her portrait as well as various things that you could do to help keep your stress levels down. You’d nearly choked on your tea when she had mentioned sex before quickly backtracking due to the doctor’s orders to specifically not do anything overtly physical.

“Although,” she began after thinking for a moment, “there are things that Tommy could do for you without you needing to exert yourself too much.” 

You did choke on your tea then, mortified at her implication. You coughed, face burning in embarrassment. “Pol, I appreciate the advice, really, but please… Can we  _ please  _ not discuss Thomas  _ pearl diving _ ?” 

She’d agreed, and the topic quickly shifted to Georgie, though she smirked knowingly at you for the rest of the afternoon, as if she knew you would take her advice. 

You did.

Thomas dipping his head between your thighs became a near nightly occurrence after Polly had suggested that particular method of stress relief. It wasn’t nearly as gratifying as having him inside of you, but it would do for the time being. And Polly had been right, it certainly was an effective method of stress relief.

Those nights, after you were sated and curled in Thomas’s arms, he always had a hand rested above the little life inside of you. Eventually, as the weeks wore on and you gradually recovered, the little life made itself known, the smallest hint of a bump appearing on your stomach, reminding you that the life that was a little piece of Thomas and the little piece of you was resilient, that it was still there and fighting and growing strong. Thomas marveled over the bump when he first saw it, his haunting eyes shining in awe and his hands rubbing over the small bump over and over and over as if to prove that it was really there. 

And then, not more than a few days after Thomas noticed the growing bump, you were able to take a deep breath and relinquish most of your worries. 

The private physician that Thomas had hired to handle your care while you recovered had told you that most of the danger had passed, that your baby was healthy and growing as it should be.

“There’s no guarantee, though,” he had told you and Thomas bluntly, adding, “You’ll need to manage your stress levels throughout your pregnancy.” And while it wasn’t exactly what you had been hoping to hear, you were still elated that your baby, your newest little piece of Thomas and little piece of you, was still thriving after everything that had happened.

You and Thomas celebrated the news with a bath after Georgie had been put down for the night. You relaxed against his naked chest, enjoying the warmth of the water and his comforting touch over your small bump, while Thomas puffed on a cigarette.

“That’s not a very healthy habit, Thomas,” you reminded him as your fingers danced along his arm that held you against him.

“So I’ve been told,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the damp skin of your neck while his hand sank lower and lower beneath the surface, trailing from your stomach to between your legs. 

You relaxed into his touch, head dropping back to rest on his shoulder. With his cigarette held between two fingers, he gripped your chin and turned your head just enough that he could capture your lips with his, his kiss hungry and demanding.

You moaned into his mouth, feeling him stiffen against you. You had fully intended to turn in his embrace and take what you’d been deprived of during those first few weeks of your recovery when the knocking began.

“Mr. Shelby,” Mary called from the other side of the door.

“What is it, Mary?” he asked, irritation clear in his voice. Despite the interruption, he didn’t stop prodding and teasing you with his fingers, and you bit your lip to suppress another moan.

“Mr. Shelby, your brother is here. He’s in your office now.”

“Tell him he can wait.” He bit your neck gently, apparently done with his conversation with the housekeeper. 

“Of course, Mr. Shelby.”

Once you were sure she was gone, you turned in his arms and straddled him, kissing him deeply as you sank down onto him. He pulled away from your kiss, caressing your face as his haunting eyes bore into yours. “Are you sure you’re feeling up for this?”

“Thomas Shelby, it has been nearly a month since you last fucked me. I’m starting to feel a little deprived.”

He smirked wolfishly. “Deprived, eh?” His hands found your hips, moving you in a gentle rhythm over him. “We can’t have that now, can we?”

You curled your hands around the back of his neck, holding him tightly as you took over your movements. Your body buzzed at the familiar feeling of him inside you, and you slanted your mouth over his, muffling your moans and his groans in your kisses. Water was spilling over the edge of the tub erratically, soaking the floor and the towels that had been set out for you and Thomas as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.

You cried out his name just as the door opened forcefully. 

“Tommy,” a voice accompanied the person that had burst through the door. You looked up, catching their wide eyes as they took in the state of the room and your compromised position atop Thomas. John. “Hello, Nora. Didn’t realize you were in here, too.”

Thomas pulled your body tighter against his, shielding you from John’s amused eyes. “Hello, John,” you greeted, cheeks tinted pink. 

“Glad to see you’re recovering nicely,” he quipped, his tone teasing and his customary lopsided smirk on his face.

“What do you want that couldn’t wait five minutes, John?” Thomas asked, clearly displeased with the interruption.

“Only five minutes?” John looked you over, and you smiled against Thomas’s neck, trying your best not to laugh at the brotherly teasing. “A girl like Nora deserves more than five minutes, Tommy.”

“John,” his brother warned.

“It’s Vicente Changretta,” John told Thomas, and suddenly the mood had sobered. “We’ve got him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: "pearl diving" was popularized in the 1920's-1930's as a less vulgar term for eating someone out (not sure if it was used in america or england, but i couldn't resist using it here)


	22. act xvi. i could be fearless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thomas,” you tightened your grip on his chin, making him look at you. “I want to look that bastard in the eyes and make sure he knows what he almost cost me, what he almost cost us. I want to make sure he fucking knows.” You leaned closer to Thomas, chest heaving as your anger grew. “I want to see the fear in his eyes before you put a fucking bullet between them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two updates for the price of one
> 
> as always, unedited

“I’m coming with you,” you told Thomas as you hastily dressed beside him. 

After John had interrupted your bath, Thomas had been quick to remove your from his lap and step out of the water, barely taking the time to wrap a towel around his body before striding through the hall towards your bedroom.

“You’ll stay here with Georgie,” he counted, buttoning his vest.

You interrupted him, the sleeve of your dress slipping over your shoulder as you reached up and captured his chin in your hand. “I’m coming with you, Thomas, and that’s final.” You stared at him, a silent challenge being issued. “I will not sit by and twiddle my thumbs like a good little wife while you go out and confront the man that nearly killed me.”

“Nora,” he warned, voice low and gruff. “You’ll stay here.”

“Thomas,” you tightened your grip on his chin, making him look at you. “I want to look that bastard in the eyes and make sure he knows what he almost cost me, what he almost cost us. I want to make sure he fucking knows.” You leaned closer to Thomas, chest heaving as your anger grew. “I want to see the fear in his eyes before you put a fucking bullet between them.”

He was silent then, staring at you with the cold, quiet intimidation that defined who Thomas Shelby was. Finally, he sighed and whispered, “I don’t want to fight you on this, Nora.”

“Then don’t.” You finished dressing yourself before silently helping Thomas into his suit jacket. Thomas Shelby, always dressed so properly, always so put together even to murder a man. “I deserve this, Thomas. I deserve to be able to look the man that almost cost us our child’s life in the eye, I deserve to see the fear in his eyes when he realizes that he _ cannot break us _ , Thomas.”

He dragged his hand over his face, knowing that you weren’t likely to let this go until he gave in. “Fine,” he breathed, sounding just as displeased with allowing you to go as you imagined he was. He turned to face you, gripping your arms and drawing your attention to his haunting gaze. “But you’ll keep your distance, and the first sign - the first fuckin’ sign, Nora - that you’re getting worked up, you’ll leave.” His concern for you, for the baby was clear in his voice. “Do you understand?”

You nodded. 

“Good.” He released his hold on you. “Let’s go then. John’s waiting.”

You followed after him as he made his way through the house and down the stairs to where John was waiting in the foyer, your short legs struggling to keep up with his long, urgent strides. If John was surprised to see you at Thomas’s side, shrugging your coat on before you exited the house and got into the waiting car, he didn’t say anything. The only reaction he provided was a small, barely noticeable nod in your direction and a look of understanding in his eyes.

You fidgeted the entire ride into Birmingham, bouncing your leg up and down nervously until Thomas settled a hand on your thigh in an attempt to both calm your nerves and stop your fidgeting in a single action. It had stopped you from bouncing your knee, but mere minutes later you had lifted your hand to your mouth and bit your nails down to little nubs.

Thomas watched you from the corner of his eye as he spoke with John, silent in his observation of you as you continued to fidget. Wordlessly, his hand found yours and squeezed gently, a reminder that he was there, an anchor in the darkest of storms that you had yet to face. 

You squeezed back and took a deep breath. Once you reached your destination, you’d face the man that had tried to have your husband killed and nearly killed you and your unborn child instead.

Arthur met you outside of an abandoned warehouse, one that Shelby Company Limited had once used before it was no longer needed, and unlike John, he hadn’t kept his surprise silent when he saw you exit the car behind Thomas.

“Tommy, what the fuck is Nora doin’ here?” he asked, eyes flickering back and forth between you and Thomas in confusion.

“She wants to be here,” your husband responded in a manner that communicated to everyone present that it was not a discussion he wanted to have nor was it something that he’d be questioned on. 

Arthur’s lips tightened into an unimpressed line, but he nodded in acceptance and led the way inside the warehouse, led the way to where an older man was tied to a chair in the center of the empty space, gagged and facing away from the entrance.

John and Arthur stood like sentries at the entrance while Thomas walked around the man, peeling his suit jacket off before tossing it to the ground and rolling up his sleeves as he went. You felt your heart thundering in your chest as he lit a cigarette and put it between his lips, inhaling and exhaling a puff of smoke before you’d gathered the courage to approach.

Thomas’s haunting eyes darted in your direction as you neared him, watching you with concern before flickering back to the other man once you came to a stop at his side. “You know why you’re here, Mr. Changretta?”

The man lifted his gaze, staring at Thomas with a blank expression before briefly glancing at you and nodding his head towards you, though you couldn’t be sure if it was in greeting or in acknowledgement of what had happened to you, what he had caused to happen to you.

“My wife wanted to look you in the eyes before I put a bullet in you fucking head, wanted to see the fear in your eyes before you die.” Thomas pulled out his pistol, ensured that it was loaded, and glanced back at you, looking you over for any sign that you were growing distressed. “You sent a hired man to kill me, and he couldn’t even do his fuckin’ job properly. Instead, you put my wife in the hospital. You put her life in danger, and you put the life of my unborn child in danger.” He raised the gun and pressed the muzzle between the man’s eyes.

You stared, expression blank and concealing the anger you felt, the absolute fucking rage that boiled within you as you thought back on the last few weeks and the still present risk of losing the little life inside of you. Your anger, your rage coiled deeply within you until you felt hot tears racing down your cheeks. 

And at the sight of those tears, Thomas wavered, lowering the gun. “Nora?” he asked, his voice filled with concern as his haunting eyes searched your face.

“I want to talk to him,” you said abruptly.

“That wasn’t what we agreed to.” Thomas turned and approached you, haunting eyes filled with a mixture of worry and irritation. He lightly pressed his hand to the small swell of your stomach, as if to reassure himself that it was still there, and said, “You should leave, Nora. You don’t need to be here for this.” He turned to his brothers and called over his shoulder, “John, take Nora back to the car.”

“No!” you shouted, your outburst startling the typically calm, composed Thomas. He stared at you with his haunting eyes, wide and full of apprehension. “I want to fucking talk to him. Let me do this, Thomas. Please. I need to do this.  _ Please _ , Thomas.” Your voice was low, pleading, and after taking a long drag from his cigarette and sighing, Thomas waved his arm, gesturing for you to do as you pleased. 

You wiped the tears from your eyes and stared your husband in the eyes, issuing a silent challenge as you took the gun from his hand. When he offered no argument, only a flash of warning in his haunting eyes, you stalked towards the man that was ultimately responsible for your physical, emotional, and mental suffering of the past month.

“Mr. Changretta,” you greeted impassively, pulling the cloth from his mouth that had been used to gag him.

“Mrs. Shelby,” he returned, eyeing you curiously. “I see you’ve recovered well. It’s regretful that you were needlessly dragged into this matter. Our wives should not be exposed to these things.” His gaze shot over your shoulder towards Thomas, an accusation in his dark eyes.

You snorted. “There’s no need to lie, Mr. Changretta. Lying now won’t save you from my husband. You only regret that your man hadn’t been able to do what you had ordered.”

“There’s that as well, yes.”

“Yes, there’s that,” you repeated sardonically, pacing in front of the man. “Because if your man had actually done what you’d ordered him to do, my husband would probably be dead right now. But your man fucked up, Mr. Changretta, and instead harmed me.” You tsked tauntingly, wanting to anger this man even half as much as he had angered you. “That was an unfortunate mistake for you, Mr. Changretta. You’re going to die tonight, regardless of what you have to say. My husband isn’t the forgiving kind.”

“It was never my intention to harm you, Mrs. Shelby,” he offered, though it only served to anger you further.

“It doesn’t matter what your intention was! It doesn’t fucking matter! You almost took my baby from me!  _ My baby _ !” you cried and pressed your hand against the slight swell of you stomach protectively, eyes stinging from your tears as you recalled the fear you felt those first few days after waking up and being told you may still lose the baby, the fear you felt during your weeks of recovery and not knowing how to make sure you didn’t lose this baby, too. “And for what? For fucking what? Because of some perceived bullshit insult? For burning down a couple of your fucking businesses?”

“Those bastards mutilated my son!” he shouted at you in Italian.

You responded in kind, making use of your mother’s native language. “And you tried to have my husband murdered!” He must not have been expecting you to understand, for his eyes grew wide like saucers when you responded in fluent Italian. The language felt dusty in your mouth after so many years of not using it, but nonetheless you delighted in the look of shock on his face, laughing mockingly. “What? Are you surprised that Thomas Shelby is wed to a woman that shares your heritage, Mr. Changretta?”

“Your heritage does not matter, Mrs. Shelby. You spit on your heritage when you wed into a family of gypsy cunts.”

“And you spit on our heritage when you ordered a hit on my husband!” You could feel John and Arthur’s eyes on you, likely shocked at the revelation that you had been able to speak another language this entire time, and you felt Thomas’s fingers ghost over the small of your back, trying to calm you despite not understanding your words. “My mother always told me men from the motherland were honorable, and yet you hired a man to kill my husband. Where’s the honor in hiring someone to pull the trigger for you, Mr. Changretta? Was my mother lying or are you just a spineless coward?” 

He averted his eyes, and you scoffed. “You tried to have Thomas murdered,” you repeated, “on his own fucking turf. But your man fucked up, didn’t he? He fucking shot me instead, and I nearly lost my baby because of it!”

“Your children will never be safe so long as they bare the name Shelby and you’re married to that gypsy bastard,” he spat. “You may not have had to mourn a child that day, but you will eventually. It’s inevitable in this line of work. Look at my Angel, what those fucking gypsies did to him. Your children will meet a similar end, Mrs. Shelby, and all you’ll be left with is your grief and resentment for your husband.”

His warning sent you over the edge, your anger spiraling out of your control. “No, Mr. Changretta, I will not,” you told him, speaking in English once again as tears streamed freely down your face. “Because we’re resilient. Me, my family, the Peaky fucking Blinders.” You leaned forward, using your free hand to brace yourself against the arm of the chair that the man had been tied to as you dragged the muzzle of the gun along his temple. “And you’re just a fucking insect that needs to be squashed underfoot, just like any of the others that think they can threaten my family.”

Without a second thought, you straightened and pulled the trigger. 

You stepped back as you felt the man’s blood, warm and sticky, splatter across your face and the exposed skin of your neck and hands. Hands trembling, your dropped the gun.

“Fuckin’ hell, Nora! You can’t just fuckin’ drop a gun like that! Do you want it to misfire?” you heard John shout across the empty space of the warehouse, but his voice sounded distant compared to the ringing in your ears. 

You could hear Thomas calling your name, trying to get your attention, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from what remained of the man’s face. “I killed a man, Thomas,” you stated the obvious, as if he hadn’t been only steps behind you when you pulled the trigger. “I killed a man.”

He pulled you into his arms, turning you away from the bloody scene in front of you. “Come ‘ere.” He held you against his chest, ignoring how the blood on your face and your heavy tears stained the collar of his white shirt. “It’s okay, love. It’s okay.”

You held your bloodstained hands away from him, unable to relax into his embrace as you struggled with what you’d just done. “I killed a man,” you repeated, voice low and wavering. “I killed him.” Your legs trembled beneath you, struggling to support yourself and the weight of your actions. “I killed him, Thomas.”

“I know, love. It’s okay,” he soothed, trying to calm you as his hand smoothed your hair back.

But it was anything but okay. You killed a man. You killed a man.  _ You fucking killed a man _ . You squeezed your eyes shut to stop the tears, trying to ignore the bile rising in your throat. It was useless, and you tore yourself from Thomas’s embrace and fell to your knees, retching. 

How had you gone from enjoying a bath with Thomas only an hour ago to fucking  _ killing a man _ ? Was it worse that you felt remorse for killing the man that had nearly cost you the life of your unborn child or worse that you had actually taken gratification from being the one to pull the trigger and end his life? Is that what being Thomas Shelby’s wife was? Was being his wife changing you  _ that much _ ? Were you going to become a person you no longer recognized?

You heard Thomas barking orders at Arthur and John to take care of the body and to get someone in there to clean up the mess that you had made of the man as you continued to emptied the contents of your stomach onto the concrete floor. You felt his hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles while his other hand wound itself in your hair, pulling it away from your face. You heard him whispering reassurances into your ear as your body shook with sobs and your throat constricted, making it harder and harder to breath with each passing second.

And then you screamed, releasing all of the anger, the guilt, the fear, the anxiety that had built over the past month and reached a breaking point when you put a bullet between the man’s eyes.

You killed a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mental break incoming
> 
> i debated using actual italian in this, but chose not to for ease of reading. hopefully it's still understood what's meant to be spoken in italian


	23. act xvii. blood on my hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas shushed you in the same manner that you shushed Georgie during her many tantrums turned break downs, and you idly wondered if that’s what this was. Was killing a man your tantrum? Was struggling with the reality that you had actually killed a man your break down? Were you really no different than a nearly two-year-old child?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited
> 
> including a slight lady macbeth reference for any shakespeare fans

The drive back to Arrow House had been deathly silent. Under orders from Thomas, Arthur had stayed in Birmingham to clean up the mess at the warehouse while John drove you and Thomas home, and part of you wished that Arthur had come along, if only to fill the silence that was slowly driving you mad the more you thought about what you had just done.

You had killed a man.

Like those nights that Thomas had found you in the kitchen, drunk and crying on the floor, he carried you up the stairs to your bedroom as soon as you’d returned home. After both of you had been stripped of your bloodstained clothes, he wordlessly washed the blood from your skin with a damp cloth while you stared vacantly at the opposite wall, unwilling to even blink out of fear that you would only see what had been left of the Italian’s bloody face behind your eyelids. Your entire body trembled as he pulled a shift over your head before wrapping you in his arms, burrowing you both beneath the blankets on your bed. He held your body against his as the tears returned and sobs wracked your body.

Thomas shushed you in the same manner that you shushed Georgie during her many tantrums turned break downs, and you idly wondered if that’s what this was. Was killing a man your tantrum? Was struggling with the reality that you had actually killed a man your break down? Were you really no different than a nearly two-year-old child?

Sleep didn’t elude you long. You felt safe, with Thomas’s arms around you and the blankets pulled over your heads, the sounds of his steady breathing as he slept and his heart beating beneath where your head rested on his chest anchoring you to him. But no amount of comfort would have kept the nightmares away.

You’d seen him in your dreams before, with his dark eyes and his boyishly tousled haired and his wide smile. He looked like your mother, far more than you ever had. In your dreams, you remembered him as he had been before the war - happy, free spirited, confident, hopeful. 

The Ben that you saw in your nightmares that night was anything but. No, the Ben that appeared before you looked bitter, lonely, tormented.

The very worst part was the bleeding wound in the space between his eyes.

“You did a bad thing, little sister,” he had taunted you. “What happened to sweet, little Eleanora?”

_ Too sweet, too innocent. _

“She grew up, Ben.” Your voice sounded distorted, faraway. It didn't sound like you, and yet it was you.

And then you pulled the trigger of a gun you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding and he was gone.

You woke up screaming, tears streaming down your face. “I killed him! I killed him! I killed him!” you wailed, your words hardly making any sense in the midst of your crying. Arms wrapped around you from behind, and you tore yourself from their grip, stumbling from the bed and falling to the ground. You wailed for your brother, begging for his forgiveness, begging for him to come back. 

And then you heard him, calling your name.

Before Thomas had a chance to stop you, to pull you into the comfort of his arms again, you ran from the room, seeking out the achingly familiar voice that called to you.

You stumbled past a startled Mary, ignoring her concerned stare and questions, and continued down the stairs, slipping only twice in your rush to find the voice that called out to you.

“Ben!” you cried, yearning to hear his voice again, to see him again, to beg for his forgiveness.

“Nora!” a voice called, but it didn’t belong to your brother. You turned to see Thomas hurrying down the stairs after you, pausing only briefly to tell Mary to return to bed. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, tone somewhere between anger and concern.

“Ben,” you cried, your lower lip trembling. “I need to find him. I need to find him, Thomas. I need to. I heard him, Thomas. He’s here. I need to find him.”

“Nora, you need to come back to bed,” he countered, his haunting eyes full of apprehension as he hesitantly approached you, a hand out to sooth you as if you were one of his spooked horses. “Come back to bed before you wake Georgie.”

“I need to find him, Thomas,” you sobbed. 

“Ben’s gone, Nora. He’s gone.”

You took a shaky breath and screwed your eyes shut, trying to stop the tears from continuing to fall. “I killed him. I killed him, Thomas. I killed Ben.”

When you opened your eyes again, Thomas’s hand was tracing the edge of your jaw, cupping your chin and tilting your gaze up at him. “Ben’s death wasn’t your fault, Nora. It was never your fault.”

“I killed him, Thomas. I did it. I killed him. I pulled the trigger.”

He carried you to bed for the second time that night after you had cried into his shoulder until you could cry no more, your tears long since dried up but your body still shaking with sobs. He asked no questions when he pulled you into his arms, one hand settling over the swell of your stomach while the other combed through your hair, lulling you back to sleep.

You startled awake only hours later, when it was too early in the morning for any of the staff to be up and about, sweating and shaking and tense from the images, the reminder of your actions replaying over and over in your nightmares. 

You slid from Thomas’s embrace and staggered away from the bed, towards the bathroom. You needed to scrub the blood away from your skin. You turned on the faucet, the water scalding, and sunk your hands beneath the surface of the swiftly filing basin. You need to scrub the blood away from your skin.

You’d begun muttering to yourself as you scrubbed, rubbing your skin raw. “I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.”

“Nora?”

You looked over your shoulder to see Thomas stood in the doorway, his haunting eyes filled with confusion. You turned your attention back to your hands in the sink and the blood that just wouldn’t fucking wash away no matter how hard you scrubbed.

“Nora, what are you doing?” he asked as he approached you slowly, treating you as if you would spook and run away if he wasn’t careful.

“The blood, Thomas,” you whispered, scrubbing at your hands furiously. You felt your frustration rise the longer you scrubbed with no progress. Your tears dripped from your chin, and a sob tore through you. “I can’t get the fucking blood off of my hands! Why won’t it wash off? Why won’t it wash off, Thomas? I can’t...” You trailed off, your sobs growing louder and louder.

You felt Thomas take your hands in his, pulling them from the water. “Look at me, love. Look at me.” You lifted your eyes to his as he lifted your hands into your line of sight. “Look. There’s no blood, love. It’s already been washed off.” You sobbed and collapsed against him, and he readily accepted you into his embrace, whispering in your ear, “There’s no blood, Nora.”

“It won’t wash off, Thomas. It won’t…”

He shushed you, holding your head against his bare chest as you cried. “It’s okay, love. You’re okay, lovely girl.” His hand smoothed over your hair as he gently rocked you back and forth, pressing gentle kisses to your hairline. “It’s okay. There’s no blood. It’s all been washed off. I swear, love. There’s no more blood on your hands.”

He held you for what felt like hours, though in reality you knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, holding you closely. The sound of his rhythmic heartbeat against your ear soothed you more than his words ever could have. 

You woke one final time not more than a couple hours after Thomas had finally ushered your back to bed and soothed you to sleep.

That time, it hadn’t been nightmares that work you. Rather, it had been Thomas quietly getting out of bed and leaving you alone, the door shutting quietly behind him as he fled from your bedroom. You didn’t waste any time in following him, sliding your slippers on and trailing down the hall after him. 

You found him in his office, half-dressed and looking far too exhausted to be awake. “You should go back to bed, Nora,” he said without looking up from the glass of whiskey he was pouring himself. “You need sleep.”

“The same can be said for you, Thomas,” you returned, closing the door behind you. “You’ve been chasing me around all night. It’s only fair that I chase after you at least once, right?”

He glanced up at you, the corner of his lips twitching up before his mouth tightened into an unexpressive line once more. He walked around the room, looking you over curiously as he settled himself in the chair behind his desk.

You sat yourself on the floor on the opposite side of the room rather than in one of the chairs in front of Thomas’s desk, recalling your nights in the kitchen and the way those moments allowed you to hide from your rampant thoughts.

Silence gripped the room as Thomas sipped on his whiskey and you stared at your hands, still unable to wash away the sight of the blood stained your hands since you pulled the trigger. 

“Why’d you let me take the gun?” you finally asked, your voice hoarse from all the crying you’d done throughout the night. That little fact, so insignificant compared to everything else that had been torturing you every time you closed your eyes, had been bothering you since it happened, slipping the gun from his grip to take it in your own hand. Sure, you had handled a gun before, but this was Thomas. You knew him too well to know that he never would have let you take the gun from him like that without at least questioning you about it first. “Why, Thomas?” 

He sighed, slouching in his seat as he put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. “I never thought you’d actually use it,” he admitted before inhaling deeply. 

“You were wrong.”

He scoffed. “Clearly.” You watched him as he tilted his head back, almost looking relaxed, but you knew better. He was stressed and trying to hide it from you like always. “I never should’ve let you come. I should’ve made you stay home with Georgie.” After a moment, he added quietly, “You’ll be the death of me, woman. I can’t fuckin’ say no to you anymore.”

Silence settled between the two of you once again as you pressed yourself further against the bookshelves that lined the walls of his office and Thomas drank deeply from his glass between long drags of his cigarette.

Finally, “I don’t regret it.” Your gaze lifted to meet his haunting eyes. “I’m glad I killed Changretta.”

His eyes widened, startled at your admission. “Nora, you don’t need to-”

“I’m glad I killed him, Thomas,” you affirmed, knowing exactly what he was going to say.  _ You don’t need to lie. You don’t need to pretend. You don’t need to be okay.  _ You were far from okay, but it didn’t change the fact that you were glad that you had pulled the trigger. “Am I a bad person for being glad that I took someone’s life?” you whispered, eyes seeking his, desperate for an answer. 

It had never been about guilt that you had actually done it. No, it was the opposite. You felt no guilt for killing the man that nearly killed you, that nearly killed the little life growing inside of you. You felt guilt because you took satisfaction from killing the man that had been responsible for your pain.

Thomas abandoned his drink and his cigarette, stamping the latter out in the ashtray on his desk, and approached you, crouching down in front of you so that he could take your chin in his hand. “You’re not a bad person, Nora. You’ll never be a bad person.”

“Can someone who claims to be a bad person really judge if someone else is a bad person or not?” you asked curiously. Thomas had looked taken aback by the question, but you hadn’t meant to offend him. No, it was plain, unabashed curiosity. “You were the one who told me you weren’t a good person, Thomas. Numerous times, if I recall correctly.” It had been one of his many reasons for being so hesitant at the beginning of your relationship, for being so hesitant to even approach you or speak to you when you first met the Shelby brothers at the Garrison nearly six years ago. “So how can you judge if someone is a good person or a bad person?”

He took your face between his hands, staring at you with an intensity that you couldn’t place. “Because I know you, love. You’re a loving mother and you’re a wonderful wife. You’d do anything for our family and friends if they asked it of you. You’d help a stranger without a second thought, without any promise of anything in return. You’re a good person, love.” He paused, his thumb sweeping over your cheek to catch a stray tear. “I may not be a good man, may not be able to judge someone’s character without sounding like a hypocrite, but I know you, Nora. Killing a man - one who nearly fuckin’ killed you and our child, one who deserved his death - doesn’t change who you are. You’re a good fuckin’ person, Eleanora Shelby. Don’t doubt that.”

You sighed and leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed in contentment. And then the moment was over, and you opened your eyes to look at Thomas, to look into those haunting eyes that had pulled you head over heels for this man after just a single night nearly six years ago. “I’m not the same person I used to be, Thomas,” you whispered, afraid that if you said it too loud it would make it even more true than it already was. “The person I used to be wouldn’t have killed a man tonight. The person I used to be wouldn’t be willing to do it again.”

Thomas swallowed thickly, uneasy, before settling down next to you on the floor. He wordlessly wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, your head resting against his shoulder.

“I won’t ever put you in that situation again, Nora,” he whispered, the promise made to him just as much as it was to you.

You smiled sadly, tilting your head to look up at him. “You can’t promise that, Thomas. Like Changretta said, this line of work,  _ your  _ line of work... It’s inevitable that the people that want to hurt you may target our children, may target me. I’d rather be able to protect our children against that danger than to sit around and do nothing.”

After a moment, he nodded in silent agreement and pressed a kiss to your temple before resting his head against yours. “You don’t need to let it change you.”

“No,” you agreed, “but it will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> interlude to follow shortly


	24. interlude vii: i can’t overstate it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know,” you spoke after sitting in silence for a while, “you don’t need to keep hovering over me like a mother hen, Thomas.” Your comment caught him off guard, and he struggled to form a decent response. “I know you’ve been watching me for the past week, waiting for me to crack and lose my head like I did that night. You don’t need to lie or pretend otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or alternatively: family time with little georgie

He keeps a close eye on you after that night, watching and waiting for you to break down, to dash around the house in the middle of the night screaming and crying for your long dead brother.

(It never happens, but there are times that Tommy sees you with that eerie, vacant expression that reminds him of that night, when you had refused to speak to him, when you had refused to even look at him as he cleaned the Italian’s blood from your skin).

He goes about his business, but there’s a new sense of hesitation every time before he leaves Arrow House, eyes lingering on you as if you’re likely to break as soon as he leaves you alone to your own devices.

(It never happens, but there are times that Tommy comes home after a long day to see you staring at your book, gaze unmoving along the pages. He knows that you get lost in your own head, and frankly it scares him to think of what thoughts torture you when he’s gone).

John’s the first to mention anything to him, having been there that night when you pulled the trigger. His concern for you, while touching, borders on invasive and Tommy has to remind himself that it’s no longer the winter of 1918, John is no longer helplessly infatuated with you, and you’ve chosen Tommy time and time again.

“She’s fine,” Tommy tells him, brushing off his brother’s concern, but he knows that you’re anything but fine. To Tommy, it seems like you’re just going through the motions. You kiss him goodbye each morning before he leaves, Mary tells him that you play with Georgie in the morning before settling yourself in his office to review donor statements and balance sheets for the Shelby Charity Foundation, and every night when he gets home, you’re always curled up on the loveseat, reading one of your many well-loved books. 

(The only time it doesn’t seem like you’re just going through the motions day after day is when he takes you to bed, crawling between your thighs and doing whatever it takes to have you sighing and moaning and crying his name as you writhe in pleasure and arch into his touch).

Ada’s the second to mention anything to him after spending a day at Arrow House with you while he was meeting with the Russians. Unlike John, Ada is not someone that he can just brush off. She knows you too well, likely knows him too well. And so he tells Ada why you’re the way you are, and he’s rewarded with a slap to the face and a firm talking to, berating him for ever letting you get anywhere near that particular side of the business. 

He deserves it, he knows. He blames himself, too - for allowing you to get hurt in the first place, for allowing you to come along that night to confront and ultimately kill Changretta, for allowing you to take the gun from him. But he knows that you only blame yourself, and no amount of reassurance from him will stop you from blaming yourself, from fearing that you were changing, that you were no longer a good person.

(He also knows that you still scrub your hands as if there’s still blood on them, that you still have nightmares about putting the gun to your brother’s head and pulling the trigger, that you still wake up crying in the middle of the night when you think he’s asleep. He knows that you’re suffering with the choice you’d made, and yet, you had said it yourself - you were willing to do it again if the need ever arose).

It takes five days before you finally start to look like yourself again, before you start to become the Nora that he knows like the back of his hand.

He finished his work in the city earlier than he had anticipated, and instead of going to the Garrison for a drink with John and Michael, he chose to come home, worried that leaving you home alone for too long would give you too much time to lose yourself in your head again.

His worries were unfounded, and when he walked through the foyer upon arriving home, he heard the infectious sound of Georgie’s laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet house. After depositing his coat and hat on the rack, he walked through the house, following the noise to the drawing room. 

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame as he took in the pleasantly domestic sight before him. 

You had pulled Georgie into your lap, careful of the slight swell of your stomach, and had pulled out one of the dusty picture albums from the shelf and put it on your daughter’s lap, flipping through the pages and pointing out various people in pictures here and there. 

“And this is your nonna,” you told Georgie, pointing at a picture you had shown Thomas nearly five years ago. “She would have loved you, little one.”

“Nonna,” Georgie repeated, the word sounding foreign coming from her mouth. He couldn’t help but laugh.

It caught your attention, and you turned to him, a soft smile on your face. “Georgie, tell you daddy he should come join us.”

“Come, Daddy!” she cried happily, her eyes - Tommy’s eyes - bright and happy and warm.

Never wanting to disappoint his daughter, he joined you and Georgie on the sofa, lazily draping an arm around your shoulders and eyeing the pictures on the page. Looking at the picture of you, no older than five or six years old, with your mother, there was no doubt that Georgie was your daughter. She may have had Tommy’s coloring, but the shape of her eyes, her nose, and especially her smile were a near replica of the little Nora that smiled up at them from the pages of the album. 

You flipped a page, and pointed out a picture of your father for Georgie. Tommy recalled the first time you’d flipped through this album with him, and he had been surprised to see your father. He wasn’t portly like his brother - Georgie’s namesake - had been. Instead, your father was a tall man with a lean frame. You’d told him he liked to work with his hands and kept busy often, that he was never a great father, but he’d loved your mother dearly - enough to leave England behind for newer, grander opportunities in America when you’d been little more than a few months old - and that had been enough for you and your brother.

Another page turned, and it was a picture of you with both of your parents at the small Catholic church you used to attend every Sunday. “Ma insisted we go every week,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over the picture gingerly. “Knew the Bible like the back of her hand.” You smiled and glanced up at Tommy. “In both English and Latin. I honestly think she learned to speak English by reciting Bible verses daily.”

“And yet I haven’t seen you set foot in a church the entire time I’ve known you.”

You raised a brow at him. “And you have?”

He shrugged. “I was in a church a couple hours before I asked you to marry me.”

“Which time? I believe you asked me a total of four times, Thomas. You’ll need to be more specific.” Your teasing made him feel like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, made him feel like maybe things were finally going back to normal.

Another page turned, and that weight settled itself firmly back on his shoulders as your smile fell and your eyes began to water. 

“And this, Georgie,” you began, pressing your finger against the picture fondly, “is your Uncle Ben. This is Mama’s big brother.”

“Big brother,” she repeated, though not nearly as eloquently or as intelligible as you had said the words, and Tommy could help but to smile at his daughter in encouragement.

“Yes, little one. My big brother, just like you’ll be a big sister soon.” He watched on fondly as you pressed one of Georgie’s small hands to your little bump, smiling widely.

“Baby, Mummy!” His daughter turned to Tommy, excitement clear in her big eyes. “Daddy, baby!”

“Once the baby is born, you’ll be a big sister, Georgie. And just like your Uncle Ben, you’ll need to look out for your little sister or brother. You’ll need to be brave when they are scared, strong when they are weak, and wise when they are foolish. Just like your Uncle Ben was for me.”

You met Tommy’s eye then, your unshed tears shining brightly in the light and he ached to pull you into his arms, to comfort you, to make sure that you didn’t break and crumble before his eyes like you had only nights before. He gave your shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze and kneaded the flesh, hoping that it would be enough until you put Georgie down for the night. 

Once Georgie settled again, leaning against your chest and staring down at the pictures, you continued to point out your brother at various points in your life. When you were three and he was seven, running around your front lawn with the family dog. When you were six and he was ten, playing in the heavy snow the morning after Christmas. When you were eleven and he was fifteen, smiling during a family dinner with your mother’s family.

Another page turned, and your eyes settled on a single picture that Tommy hadn’t seen before. Your tears began falling from your eyes, tracing a slow trail over the curve of your cheeks.

Georgie noticed once a single tear landed on her wrist, and she turned to face you, putting her small hands on your cheeks and saying, “Mummy, no cry.”

You smiled briefly, laughing halfheartedly before you pressed a kiss to her chubby cheek. You looked at him then, explaining, “It’s the last pictures we took with Ma before she...before she died.” Tommy examined the pictures more closely, taking note of the way that your mother’s face looked starkly different from the earlier pictures. Her cheeks were hallowed and her eyes slightly sunken, and he was reminded of another Italian woman that hadn’t looked so different before she had died too.

“Nonna,” Georgie pointed out, making you smile sadly as you smoothed her dark hair back.

“Yes, little one. Nonna.” 

Later than night, after Tommy had helped you with Georgie’s bath and putting her down for the night - though she had put up more of a fight than typical - he sat with you in the drawing room as he read over the various documents that he’d brought home from the office with him while you read your book, some frilly romance that you’d absolutely had to have the last time he accompanied you to a bookstore. 

“You know,” you spoke after sitting in silence for a while, “you don’t need to keep hovering over me like a mother hen, Thomas.” Your comment caught him off guard, and he struggled to form a decent response. “I know you’ve been watching me for the past week, waiting for me to crack and lose my head like I did that night. You don’t need to lie or pretend otherwise.”

He sighed and set his papers to the side. “How are you feeling, really?”

“Really?” you repeated before falling silent, thinking. “I feel like I just killed a man, like I should feel guilty about it, like I should repent and beg God for forgiveness.” You lifted your gaze from your book and met his eyes. “But I won’t because I don’t feel guilty, and I certainly won’t ask God for forgiveness for something that I don’t feel guilty for.”

You set your book down and scooted closer to him, draping your legs across his lap and wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. “I told you already, Thomas - I’m glad that I killed that bastard.” You averted your gaze, staring at the fire, and he was captivated by the way the fire reflected in your eyes. “But I’m afraid that I’m...that I’ll…” You took a deep breath. “I already told you, Thomas. If someone threatens Georgie or this baby...” You pressed a hand over the swell of your stomach protectively, and Tommy’s hand was quick to cover your own. “I won’t hesitate to kill anyone that threatens our children, and that fact terrifies me, Thomas. It terrifies me because I know that the likelihood of our children being threatened as a means to get to you is far higher than it would be if we were normal people.”

“Is that what you want? For us to be normal, respectable people?”

You pressed a hand to his cheek. “I will never fault you for doing what you thought was best for your family, Thomas. For our family. You’ve made something of yourself. People know who Thomas Shelby is, for better or for worse.”

“But?”

“But yes,” you finally answered, “sometimes I wish we were normal people, Thomas. Sometimes I wish that Georgie and I could go into town without a couple of the boys trailing us, without the risk of someone trying to take me or God forbid someone trying to take Georgie. It wears on me, Thomas.” You leaned forward and rested your head on his shoulder. “I’m terrified that something will happen to you, and me and Georgie and this baby will be left alone.”

“If that ever does happen you know you would still have Pol and Ada and John and Arthur and the rest of the boys,” he reminded you, though he knew it was no consolation to you.”

“I love them, Thomas, but it’s not the same as having you. I don’t want our children to grow up without a father. You had an absent father, and my uncle was more a father to me than my actual father ever was. I don’t want that for our children. Our children deserve to have you in their lives.”

He gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted your gaze to meet his. “Once this business with the Russians is done, there’ll be changes. Shelby Company Limited will be nearly fully above board, and we can leave all of the threats and gang wars behind.” He pressed a kiss to your brow, the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips. “Only a little longer. I promise, love.”

You kissed him once more before pulling away and smiling that sad smile that he was growing too used to seeing on your face. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep, Thomas.” You swung your legs off of his lap and stood, grabbing his hand in yours and pulling him along behind you. “Come, Thomas. I’m in need of a distraction from my thoughts and you’ve always been very... _proficient_ in distracting me.”

Tommy chuckled and smiled at you, elated to see you smile in return - a true smile, one that actually reached your eyes for the first time in days - before nodding his head and letting you lead him up the stairs and towards your bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i believe there will be 5 more parts until we conclude the russian storyline, and after that there's quite a few interludes to fill the year between the end of season 3 and the beginning of season 4


	25. act xviii. lessons i've learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She snorted with laughter. “You’re bold not to address me with my proper title, Mrs. Shelby.” 
> 
> “Your title doesn’t mean shit in my house.”
> 
> “I can see why your husband likes you, Eleanora.” Your eyes widened slightly at her use of your name, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Perhaps you can keep me entertained until your husband returns.”

It wasn’t long after you’d killed Vicente Changretta that Thomas received the news that his father had died.

Thomas and the other Shelby boys, as well as others that had known their father, had gathered at Arrow House, intent to hunt a stag on the grounds of the house to honor their absent father. Your husband left early that morning, looking at you with the same concerned expression that had become commonplace in the past week as he kissed you goodbye.

It was really no different than the days that Thomas was gone, either at the office or running around handling business for the Russians. You split your time between playing with Georgie, working in the silence of Thomas’s office, and reading in the drawing room. It was while you were reviewing a balance sheet from the Garrison that your uninvited guest appeared.

“I’m here to see, Mr. Shelby.” You glanced up from your work and narrowed your eyes. “Where is he?” the Duchess asked.

You set the documents on the desk and leaned back in Thomas’s chair. “He’s not available right now.”

She tilted her chin up slightly, challenging you. “I can wait.” Without waiting for further invitation, she sat herself in the chair across the desk. “And where is Mr. Shelby? I was under the impression that he would be here today.”

“Hunting,” you answered curtly, folding your hands over your stomach. “What do you want with Thomas?”

“To speak with him.” Her answer was as vague as she had intended, and the corners of her mouth quirked up at your irritation.

You leaned forward in your seat, bracing yourself against the desk with your elbows as you clasped your hands in front of you. “To speak with him? Or to seduce him?” You thought back to that night of the charity gala, when the Duchess had bluntly informed you that she had been instructed to seduce your husband.

She smiled then, a full smile, clearly enjoying the little game that had started between the two of you. “Perhaps both. If he’s willing.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “He’s not,” you told her firmly. “So if that’s why you’re here, you should leave now.”

“My aunt will be very disappointed to hear that.” She crossed her legs, making a show of fiddling with her stockings. “She had intended to offer me to Mr. Shelby as part of their business arrangement.”

“Then I’m afraid your aunt was setting herself up for disappointment from the beginning.” You met her challenging gaze. “Perhaps you should leave and inform her of that, Tatiana.”

She snorted with laughter. “You’re bold not to address me with my proper title, Mrs. Shelby.” 

“Your title doesn’t mean shit in my house.”

“I can see why your husband likes you, Eleanora.” Your eyes widened slightly at her use of your name, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Perhaps you can keep me entertained until your husband returns.”

“Perhaps you could leave and return another time when my husband is here.”

“It’s urgent, I’m afraid. We have...business matters to discuss.”

You sighed, realizing that she was unlikely to leave until she had spoken to Thomas. You called out to Mary as she walked by, asking for tea to be brought to the office. Once the tea tray had been delivered, you poured two cups, though the Duchess made a quip about preferring something stronger before pouring herself a glass of whiskey from Thomas’s stock.

“Now,” you started as you let the tea cool, “tell me exactly what it is that you urgently need to discuss with Thomas.” The Duchess opened her mouth to argue, but you cut her off before she could begin. “I’m well aware of the business deal that my husband has with your family. You could either tell me why you’re here now, or my husband will tell me later. I’d prefer to not sit here in silence while we wait for Thomas, and frankly, Tatiana, I have nothing else that I wish to discuss with you.” 

She smirked at you, almost looking impressed. In the end, she conceded and filled you in on the current state of matters between Thomas and the Russians - the priest that Thomas wants to kill, the payment for the job when it was done, the jewels. She had been far more forthcoming than you’d anticipated, and by the time Thomas returned with the boys, Tatiana was speaking to you as if you were an old friend.

He strode into his office, his attention on the cuffs of his shirt as he adjusted them. “Love, have you had the chance to take a look at…” He trailed off when he realized you hadn’t been alone in his office, his haunting eyes flickering back and forth between you and your uninvited guest. He closed the door behind him and lit a cigarette.

“I’m sorry I came unannounced,” Tatiana told Thomas, but the tone of her voice was anything but apologetic. “Your wife was kind enough to keep me company while we waited for you to return from your hunt.”

“What do you want?”

You sat quietly, sipping your tea and listening intently as Tatiana repeated what she had told you. Your eyes lingered on Thomas, watching his face for any reaction to what the other woman was saying. The only reaction you were able to make out was annoyance, and a smug smirk pulled at your lips. 

And then she was informing Thomas of her aunt’s assumption that Thomas would want her as part of their arrangement. His haunting eyes flashed to you briefly before John was bursting through the door, going on and on about something that the women had done while left alone at the office for the day.

It had Linda written all over it, and Thomas seemed to agree.

A brief silence hung in the air as the men stared at the Russian woman and you stared at Thomas. Finally, “John, escort the Duchess to her car, please.”

She stared at Thomas for a moment before cocking her head in acceptance and glancing over her shoulder to regard you one final time before leaving. “Thank you for the company, Eleanora.”

“Goodbye, Tatiana.”

You felt Thomas’s confused gaze on you as you watched her and John leave, hearing the sound of her heels clack against the floor of the foyer as they walked towards the door, but he remained silent, walking around the room and taking his seat behind the desk when you stood and turned to the window.

“I don’t trust her,” you commented, watching from the window as her car disappeared down the drive. “She wants to fuck you, Thomas.”

“I’m well aware.”

You turned to face him, watching as he took a long drag from his cigarette before draining his glass of whiskey. “Do you want to fuck her?”

“No, Nora. I promised you-”

“I didn’t ask if you were going to fuck her, Thomas,” you interrupted. “I asked if you wanted to.”

“Nora, I don’t-”

“Ah, ah, Thomas.” You interrupted a second time, leaning towards Thomas and pressing a finger against his lips. He looked anything but pleased, his haunting eyes flickering with irritation. “We promised to be completely honest to one another, remember? Do you want to fuck the Russian woman?”

“Yes,” he answered after sighing deeply. He watched you with those haunting eyes, observing your reaction as he took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Now, see. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” you asked as you patted his cheek fondly before you crossed the room to close the door, locking it behind you. He watched you with inquisitive eyes as you approached him, rounding the desk before dropping to your knees in front of him. 

“What are you doing, Nora?” he asked as you unfastened his trousers, pushing them down slightly and taking him in hand before gently tugging until he stiffened under your touch.

“Reminding you that you have no need for the Russian woman.” As an afterthought, you add, “Or any other woman really.”

His control hadn’t lasted long after you’d taken him in your mouth, and he was quick to grip you under your arms and pull you up to him, pressing his lips to your firmly as he backed you against the desk and pulled your dress up around your hips. He was gentle as he laid you on your back across his desk but rough as his fingers gripped your hips tightly when he sank into you in one swift motion.

You came undone beneath him, though only with the help of his thumb rubbing maddening circles over your pink pearl after he’d already finished deep inside of you, and despite your best efforts to muffle your cries of pleasure against your hand, you were met with amused looks from the men when you exited Thomas’s office after sorting yourself as best as you could. 

“Markin’ your territory, Nora?” John quipped as you passed him, and you bit back a pleased smile.

“Something like that,” you called out as you ascended the stairs, ignoring the looks from the other men as John chuckled.

Two nights later, Thomas didn’t come home before you felt exhaustion overwhelming you. You slipped beneath the blankets of your bed without him, and you were restless the whole night as you remained alone in your bed.

The following morning when you woke up, he still wasn’t in bed beside you.

You could smell the familiar scent of cigarette smoke when you descended the stairs after dressing for the day, and without thinking about it, your feet followed the familiar path to Thomas’s office.

You gasped when you saw him, his hair slick with blood and his pale face beaded with sweat. “My God, Thomas! What happened?” You went to his side as quickly as your legs would allow, dropping to your knees in front of him and lifting his chin with your hand. You turned his head this way and that, observing the injury. “Thomas, what the fuck happened to you? You need to see a doctor. This is horrific. Who did this to you? I thought you were taking care of the priest. What fucking happened, Thomas?” When he didn’t answer, you reached for the phone on his desk. “I’m calling a fucking ambulance. You need medical attention, Thomas.”

He snatched the phone from your hand, pulling it out of your reach. “Nora, for fuck’s sake, shut your fuckin’ mouth for five fuckin' minutes!” he barked, startling you. Even when you’d been on the outs, Thomas never spoke to you like that. Never.

“You need to see a fucking doctor,” you repeated, voice as level as you could manage.

“I don’t need fuckin’ anything!” He stood, searching through the drawers of his desk. “Where’s the cocaine? Where’s the fuckin’ cocaine, Nora?”

Cocaine? “Tell me what’s wrong, Thomas,” you order, voice low and weary. How far could you push, how much could you prod before he had another outburst directed at you? “You need a doctor, Thomas. Not fucking cocaine. Give me a good fucking reason not to call for an ambulance right now.”

He lifted his gaze to meet your eyes, his haunting eyes unfocused and vacant. “They threatened Georgie,” he whispered. “They fuckin’ threatened our daughter, Nora! If I don’t do as they asked, they’ll fuckin’ hurt our Georgie! They'll hurt our little girl, Nora!”

You felt your body stiffen at the admission and for a moment it had seemed as though your heart stopped. _It’s inevitable_ , Changretta’s mocking voice echoed in your head. Your hands began to tremble and you sat yourself in the seat across from Thomas before your legs began to grow weak from shock. You pressed a hand over your mouth, unable to find the words to say. What was there to say to that? What were you supposed to say to someone directly threatening your daughter? Your little girl, your baby that hadn't even celebrated her second birthday yet, was threatened to get to Thomas. _It's inevitable_.

“I have men coming down from Birmingham. They’ll stay here to protect you and Georgie, but I don’t want you to leave Georgie’s side for even a fuckin' second. Do you understand?” He grabbed your chin in his hand tightly. "Tell me you fuckin' understand, Nora!"

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze out of fear that if you looked into those haunting eyes, those eyes that he shared with your daughter, you’d crumble and break where you sat.

He left that night to go to London as he had been ordered. 

You did as Thomas asked, keeping Georgie near you at all times, going so far as to even gather blankets for her to sleep in your lap in the drawing room as you read and waited for Thomas to return. You barely read more than two pages before your worry for your husband overwhelmed you. Instead of reading, you sat before the fire and stared at the blaze in the fireplace, drowning in your thoughts as your fingers carded through Georgie’s dark hair while she slept, blissfully unaware of the danger that she faced. 

You waited and waited and waited.

But Thomas never returned that night. Instead, as it neared midnight, you were startled from your worried thoughts by the ringing of the phone in Thomas’s office, and when you answered, you were met with Ada’s concerned, teary voice telling you that Thomas had been taken to the hospital after collapsing in her home.

"I'll be there soon," you told her before hanging up, rushing about the house to leave a note for Mary and Georgie's nanny. Your heart raced in your chest as you grew frantic, gathering your sleeping daughter in your arms and grabbing your coat from the rack on your way out the door.


	26. act xix. if you look into my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He blinked at Georgie, blinked at you. It was like he was only just realizing you were there. You’d known he had been getting lost in his head since the attack, that he was back in those tunnels once again. Ada had told you as much. You could see his demons reflecting in his haunting eyes once again, just like that night he walked you home from the Garrison nearly six years ago.

The first few nights after Thomas had been admitted to the hospital had been spent in London with Ada. Georgie had been thrilled to spend time with Karl, oblivious to why her father was suddenly absent as she chased him around the house. Ada had been a great comfort to you, helping you keep your mind off of your husband while he was in the first days of his recovery from his horrific injuries.

You hadn’t been allowed to see him that first night, mostly due to Thomas being rushed into surgery and being drugged to help him sleep, but also at the urging of Ada to not put yourself into a situation that would distress you even further than you already were. 

“For the baby,” she had reminded you, and you reluctantly agreed to wait until you allowed yourself to calm down and you heard from Thomas’s doctor.

After three days in London, you’d finally gone to the hospital to see him. You had left Georgie in Ada’s care rather than dragging the toddler along, and once you’d seen Thomas you were glad you hadn’t brought your daughter. Parts of his hair had been shaved away, a long scar ran across his scalp, and the metal brace that he wore around his head was distressing enough to you. Your daughter certainly would have found it distressing. 

You pressed your hand to your stomach, the feeling of its slight swell beneath your palm providing you with an uneasy calm as you sat at his bedside, talking to him and receiving little to no response. His haunting eyes were glassy, his gaze distant. It was as if he didn’t even realize you were there.

You returned to Birmingham that night, promising Ada you’d return every few days to see Thomas. You’d tried to distract yourself throughout the day, returning to the office for the first time since you’d been shot not only to work but to also be around family, to have the comfort that you lacked without Thomas coming home to you each night. You’d tried to distract yourself in the evenings, eating dinner with Georgie at the far too large table that only served as a reminder of Thomas’s absence, helping Edith with Georgie’s care in the evenings before the nanny was off the clock for the night, and reading her to sleep in your bed rather than in the nursery.

And as the weeks past, your stomach swelled just as it had with Georgie, and the loneliness you had felt when you’d been pregnant with your daughter resurfaced. You spent nights in bed, Georgie asleep beside you in Thomas’s place, softly whispering to the life inside of you late into the night. 

After a month had passed since Thomas had been admitted to the hospital, you finally brought Georgie to see her father. The brace had long been removed and his hair was growing back, the hint of a scar barely visible beneath the dark hair that was now covering the area. Ada had warned you ahead of time that he was drugged more often than not, using morphine to both help the pain and ease the nightmares, but when you saw him, his eyes looked considerably less glassy and vacant than they had only days after the attack.

“Hello, Thomas,” you greeted, taking a seat at his bedside and settling Georgie on your lap as comfortably as you were able to. “Georgie, say hello to Daddy.”

“Hello, Daddy,” she yipped excitedly, reaching her arms out towards him.

He blinked at Georgie, blinked at you. It was like he was only just realizing you were there. You’d known he had been getting lost in his head since the attack, that he was back in those tunnels once again. Ada had told you as much. You could see his demons reflecting in his haunting eyes once again, just like that night he walked you home from the Garrison nearly six years ago.

You reached forward and took his hand in yours, smiling softly at him. “We’ve missed you, Thomas. Georgie’s been asking for you.”

He did his best to engage her, he truly did, but you could see that he was keeping himself at a distance, not allowing himself to take her in his arms when she reached out to him and not allowing himself to really enjoy your company. It broke your heart.

You left after a much shorter visit than you had intended, fixing Georgie on your hip and leaning forward. Georgie pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek before you cupped his face and kissed his lips, pulling back slightly and whispering, “Don’t let your demons win, Thomas. You didn’t let them win six years ago. Don’t let them win now.” 

With one final kiss on his cheek, you and Georgie left.

After two months had passed since Thomas had been admitted to the hospital, you stopped bringing Georgie with. Each time prior that you had, he had been drugged out of his mind, and it hurt you to watch Georgie try to interact with Thomas to no avail. You figured it was better for you to go alone.

“How are you feeling, Thomas?” you finally asked, reaching out to grip his hand in yours.

“Like I had my fuckin’ skull bashed in.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I imagine you do,” you returned tonelessly. You had no desire to be there if he was in a foul mood. “Has Ada been by to visit you this week?”

He ignored your question. “Your tits are bigger,” he commented offhandedly as he lit his cigarette, his haunting gaze settled over your chest. 

You snorted, amused. “Yes, Thomas. Being pregnant will do that.” As if being reminded of your current state, his gaze flitted to your rounded stomach as your hand rubbed circles over it. “Less than four months now before we welcome this little one to the world.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice just above a whisper.

Your head tilted to the side in confusion. “Why?”

His haunting gaze locked onto yours, eyes filled with sadness and regret. “You’re alone,” he answered. “I promised you I’d be there for you with this baby. I wanted to do things properly this time.”

You gently squeezed his hand in yours as your other hand traced along his jaw. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut. “This was not your fault, Thomas, so don’t blame yourself.” You smiled at him when his eyes snapped open, his gaze latching onto yours. “Besides, I’m not alone. I have Georgie and this little one.” You placed his hand on your stomach, hoping that the little one would make themselves known. “Maybe she'll kick for you. She’s been restless lately.”

His eyes widened slightly. “She?”

Your smile grew as you nodded. “She,” you affirmed. “Pol seems to think so anyway.”

“Another little girl?” His haunting eyes were more lively than every other time you’d visited in the past two months, and it made you laugh with glee.

“If Pol’s right, then yeah. Another little girl, Thomas.”

“Pol hasn’t been wrong yet, has she?” he asked rhetorically.

She certainly hadn’t, so you spent the afternoon discussing the baby and it almost seemed like Thomas was returning to himself, like he was almost normal again. 

And then he came home a few weeks later, and you quickly realized that normal was not a word to describe Thomas Shelby. (And it never had been, but you had been hopeful, once).

You watched him carefully those first few days he was home. He was wandering throughout the house at all hours of the night, talking to himself, maybe talking to his many ghosts just as you had not so long ago. He often had a vacant look in his haunting eyes, staring through you and Georgie and anyone else that came out to the house to see him. He woke throughout the night, chest heaving and skin covered in a sheen of sweat, and despite his incoherent muttering, you’d known without a doubt that he’d been back in the tunnels when he slept.

The first night he’d been home, sleeping beside you in bed, you made the mistake of trying to wake him once the restlessness began. It had been mere seconds after you had grabbed his shoulder and tried to shake him awake that he had you pinned beneath him, his hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing tightly as he stared down at you with those haunting eyes full of rage, full of his demons that returned to haunt him once again. You’d clawed at his hands and arms, drawing blood in your frantic attempt to get him to release his hold on you, but it hadn't been enough. Soon, your vision was spotty and your lungs burned from lack of air.

It was a light flutter against your stomach, the gentle kicks of the little life within you that shook him from his haze and had him scrambling away from you as you coughed and sucked in air greedily. 

“Fuck, Nora. I…” He reached out for you before thinking better of it. “Fuck. I didn’t...Nora, I wasn’t…” He brushed his hands over his face and shouted into them, “Fuck!”

You sat up, pressing your back against the headboard as one hand went to your stomach and the other to your throat. “Thomas,” you croaked painfully, your voice hoarse and your chest heaving as tears streamed down your face. You couldn’t find the words that you wanted to say, couldn’t find your voice through the pain. Instead of speaking, a sob escaped you, and you watched Thomas’s resolve crumble through blurry eyes.

“I’m sorry, Nora. I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I never...I’m so sorry, love.” He reached out to you again, and you flinched away from his touch. He closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fuck!”

He left the room then, and he didn’t return for the rest of the night.

After that night you learned to not wake him. Instead, you waited until he startled awake before you tried to comfort him. He’d hold you in his arms, silently staring at the ceiling as you fell asleep. Whether he slept anymore on those nights or not, you were unsure. 

Your neck had bruised from that night, and you’d taken to wearing high-necked dresses or scarves after you noticed Mary staring at the purple marks at breakfast the following morning. It was better that way, to forget that the marks were even there throughout the day, to forget the feeling of helplessness you had felt as your husband tried to strangle you in his sleep, to forget that it had ever happened in the first place.

And slowly - so fucking slowly - things started to return to your strange sense of normal once again, if only for a short while until Alfie Solomons, as if summoned out of thin air, appeared at your home nearly a week after Thomas had been discharged from the hospital.

Your steps faltered when you saw him standing in the foyer, glancing around curiously. Thomas had called the boys to the house that morning, and with Alfie’s sudden appearance, you knew Thomas was likely expecting Alfie as well. 

You gently grabbed the housekeeper’s shoulder as she passed by, leaning in to tell her, “Mary, please escort Mr. Solomons into Thomas's office and then let Thomas know that he's is here, please.”

She nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Shelby.” 

Once Mary had disappeared around the corner to find Thomas, you entered the office and approached your guest. “Hello, Alfie,” you greeted.

“Hello?” he asked. “That’s all you’ve got to say after leaving London and sending a fuckin’ telegram to tell me you were resigning from your fuckin’ position?” He dragged a hand across his face, staring out the window absentmindedly. “Y’know,” he started, not bothering to turn to face you, “you could’ve told me you were gonna forgive the cunt and fuckin’ marry him, right. I would’ve shot him when I first offered to if I’d known that.”

You tried to bite back an amused smile and failed miserably as you came to a stop next to him. “It’s good to see you, too, Alfie.”

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, looking you up and down. “See the cunt’s got you up the duff again.” He turned to face you fully then. “Is that all you two do? Fuck and fight and procreate?”

You tilted your head to the side slightly and shrugged. “I s’pose. Not doing much fighting these days, though.”

He nodded, averting his gaze. “Good, good. Yeah, that’s good.” There was something unplaceable in his voice, something that you weren’t sure you wanted to identify out of fear of what it might mean. “And he’s treating you well? No more fuckin’ about with other women?”

“As far as I know,” you answered. “Alfie, I-”

“Heard you took a bullet for him,” he interrupted.

“That I did,” you said, resting your hand protectively at the top of your rounded stomach where you knew the scar from that day remained. “Hurt like hell.”

“Being shot typically does, love,” he quipped, and you snorted softly in amusement. He glanced at down at you again. “You look good, happy.”

“I am. Mostly,” you admitted. You turned your head to look out the window, unable to meet his eye. 

His hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him again. You stiffened when you realized where his gaze was directed. “What the fuck is this, love?” he asked, his voice raised in anger and his fingers gently prodding the bruises that dotted your neck. “Did that cunt fuckin’ hurt you? You told me he never put his fuckin’ gypsy hands on you like this.”

“It’s not what you think, Alfie,” you tried to explain, your voice level despite your rising anxiety.

“Then what the fuck is it, Nora?” He dropped his hand from your face, scratching at his beard in frustration. “Is it a weird fuckin’ sex thing? Because if that's the case, I _might_ not shoot him in the fuckin' face. Still might, if I feel like it.”

“It wasn’t intentional. I’m fine,” you told him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Really.” You turned when you heard footsteps approaching, knowing that Mary must have retrieved Thomas. “Please don’t antagonize my husband, Alfie. He’s had...a rough few months.”

“But, love,” he said, “antagonizing your husband is a favorite hobby of mine.”

“Maybe you should find a new hobby then,” you quipped, raising a brow at him. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Thomas asked as he walked into the room, looking back and forth between you and Alfie with an impassive expression on his face, his typical façade of calm intimidation settling over his features. 

You dropped your hand from Alfie's arm and left his side, going to Thomas and reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll go make sure the others are behaving.” You looked back and forth between Alfie and Thomas, watching as they sized each other up. “You boys play nice, now." You gave Alfie a pointed look, adding, "No shooting one another."

As you walked away from the office, shutting the door softly behind you, you heard Thomas say, “Stop looking at my wife like that, Alfie.”


	27. act xx. nothing will stand in my way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s strange,” you noted, sipping on the sweet drink she had the maid retrieve for you. “You speak to me as if you want to be my friend, and yet you would fuck my husband the minute my back is turned.”
> 
> She shrugged nonchalantly. “Your husband is a very handsome man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tad bit longer than typical
> 
> unedited, as usual

“A fucking orgy, Thomas? If you think I’m letting you go to a fucking orgy with that Russian woman, you’re sadly mistaken!” You braced your arms against his desk, supporting yourself as you leaned closer to him. “I absolutely forbid it.”

He looked up at you with those haunting eyes, an unlit cigarette between his lips. “You forbid it, eh?” He sat back and lit his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve already told you about this plan, Nora. It’s why Alfie was here today. John and Arthur will get to have their fun and check in with our informant while Alfie and I inspect the jewels for payment.”

“Is that right? And then what? You fucking come home?” You scoffed. “That woman is going to try to fuck you tonight, Thomas.”

“And I won’t fuck her, Nora. It’s that simple.”

“Is it?” you asked sarcastically. “You’re telling me that when a beautiful woman - one that isn’t six fucking months pregnant - propositions you, you’ll turn her down?”

He took a long drag, his haunting eyes boring into yours through the haze of smoke as he exhaled. “Yes, love.”

“Well excuse me if I don’t believe you given our history, Thomas.”

“Why can’t you fuckin’ trust me?” he asked, his voice raised.

Your palm slammed down on the surface of the desk. “Because you’ve abused my trust before!” you shouted, eyes wide with anger. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand along his brow. “Is this what you want to do before I leave? Fight?”

“No, Thomas,” you said. “I don’t want to fight. Instead, I want to come with you.”

“Absolutely not,” he responded immediately, his voice as firm as his gaze. “You’re not coming to fucking orgy, Nora. You’re pregnant, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, and that just means you don’t need to pull out later when you’re fucking me instead of the Russian woman.” You sat down across from him, taking pressure off of your poor feet. “Not that you’ve ever been any good at that anyway.” 

“You’re not coming,” he repeated 

You settled back in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Yes, I am.”

“Do you recall what happened the last time I allowed you to go with me to something that you had no business attending?”

“That was different, Thomas,” you answered, voice low. “Don’t fucking use that night against me. You’re the one that let me take the fucking gun from you in the first place.”

“You’re not coming, Eleanora,” he repeated, his use of your full name an indication of where he firmly stood on the topic. 

But you weren’t about to back down. “I am, Thomas. If you’re going to attend a fucking  _ sex party _ , it’ll be with your wife at your side. Besides, I can be of use during your business in the vault. Michael is busy dealing with Ada, and I’m the only other person familiar with your accounts to take stock of the jewels that you select as payment.”

He considered you for a moment, thinking over what you had said. Finally, he shook his head and cast his gaze toward the ceiling, defeated. “The boys are never gonna let me hear the fuckin’ end of this.”

Your triumphant smirk remained firmly on your face as you and Thomas dressed to leave. It remained when you got into the car with Thomas and ignored the amused and apprehensive looks from John and Arthur respectively. It remained when you arrived at the Russian palace and saw the surprise on Tatiana’s face when you approached her at Thomas’s side. It remained when the Grand Duchess took note of you and frowned, remembering how she had planned to offer Tatiana to Thomas as part of the deal.

The triumphant smirk turned to an amused smile, however, when John and Arthur were made to strip so the Russians could inspect their skin for tattoos. You averted your gaze as they stripped, focusing squarely on Thomas’s face. “You’re amused by this, aren’t you?” you asked him quietly, noting the slight quirk of the corners of his mouth. You chanced a look at the others, noting, “John certainly looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

Two fingers gripped your chin between them, forcing your attention back to Thomas. “Eyes on me, love.”

You snorted. “Not anything I haven’t seen before.” 

There was a flash of annoyance in Thomas’s haunting eyes at the reminder that John had once had what belonged to him, years ago. He looked as if he were about to retort, but his attention was dragged back to his brothers. You followed his gaze, and your eyes grew wide in surprise when you saw Tatiana on her knees with Arthur’s cock in her hand.

“Is she really…”

“She is,” Thomas confirmed, his gaze flitting back to you.

You raised a brow. “And did you receive that much... _ attention _ during your inspection, Thomas?”

He regarded you for an extended moment, his eyes scanning your face. “No,” he finally answered, though you were unable to tell if he was being truthful or not. 

Before you could ask him about it any further, the Grand Duchess was speaking to him while John and Arthur redressed. “We’ll need to search your wife as well, Mr. Shelby.”

“What?” He was caught off guard, eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed as he settled his haunting gaze on the older Russian woman. “You’re not strip searching  _ my wife _ . As you explained, it’s only the men that are searched.”

“It’s a matter of precaution, Mr. Shelby.”

“She’s not hiding any fuckin’ Russian tattoos between her legs or beneath her tits.” He stood, eyes blazing with anger. “You’re not strip searching my fuckin’ wife.”

You stood, placing a hand on his arm while the other settled over the swell of your stomach. “Thomas, calm down.”

Thomas ignored you, instead repeating, “You’re not strip searching my wife.”

“Thomas,” you said again, finally drawing his attention. “If they insist, they insist. I’ll just do it and be done with it so we can get on with our business.”

His jaw tensed, his haunting eyes filled with irritation. He sighed and ran a hand along his lips, turning to his brothers. “John, Arthur. Get the fuck out. Wait outside the door.”

Your husband helped you strip, taking your dress and shift in his hands as you stepped out of your panties to stand stark naked in the center of the room, waiting for the inspection to begin. 

Thomas was quick to catch Tatiana’s wrist in his grip as she moved towards you. “You try to play any fuckin’ games like you did with Arthur, it won’t end well,” he warned, releasing his hold on her wrist when she nodded in understanding.

You stood with your hands folded over your stomach, your eyes never leaving Thomas’s as Tatiana’s hands pushed your legs apart and lifted your breasts, inspecting every inch of your naked skin. You flinched as her fingers danced across the bruised skin on your neck, a strange look in her eyes. Finally, you saw the near imperceptible nod that Tatiana gave her aunt from the corner of your eye, and as soon as the older woman had given leave, Thomas was pulling you towards him and helping you slide your clothes back over your body.

He took your face between his hands. “Are you okay?”

You nodded and gave him a reassuring smile to hide the embarrassment you felt. “I’m okay.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead as John and Arthur were retrieved and swiftly escorted away by household staff, and you and Thomas followed the Russians to the vault.

You were met by Alfie and the Grand Duke in the vault, and Alfie didn’t hide his displeasure with you being present. “What the fuck is she doin’ here, Tommy?” he asked after Thomas had pulled out a chair for you to sit in. “Why the fuck would you involve Nora in this? Are you fucked in the head, mate? Do you enjoy puttin’ your pregnant wife in danger, Tommy? First, you fuckin’ choke her, and now you get her involved with the fuckin’ Russians?”

There was a flash of guilt in Thomas’s haunting eyes as they locked on to you, and soon you felt four pairs of eyes on you. “Alfie,” you said his name like a plee. “Drop it. Please.”

Your gaze skipped over Thomas, watching as the muscle in his jaw tensed. “You’re here to do a job, Alfie. Not question why my wife is here.”

He didn’t drop it, not really. Rather, he made small quips here and there at Thomas between making comments meant to antagonize the Russians and inspecting jewelry that had caught his eye. You kept a running account of the value that Alfie assigned to the pieces after inspecting them, and soon your business was concluded and you and Tatiana returned to the palace ahead of the others.

“I wasn’t aware that you were involved in your husband’s business, Mrs. Shelby,” she said as you were led into the room where most of the other... _ party-goers _ seemed to be congregated. 

“Our head accountant was unavailable this evening, so the responsibility of taking account of the items chosen for payment fell to me,” you explained briefly.

Tatiana nodded as you weaved through the room, around a myriad of people at different stages of undress. “I apologize for earlier. My aunt was surprised that your husband brought you along, and naturally she was cautious.”

You sat beside her on one of the many sofas in the room, scanning the crowd of people. “Naturally,” you deadpanned. You ignored the many confused looks from others in the room, but couldn’t help commenting, “I’m assuming it’s rare for pregnant women to join these  _ events _ .”

“A woman as pregnant as you, yes,” Tatiana answered, holding out a bottle of clear liquor to you. “Have you had vodka before?”

You shook your head. “No, and I’m afraid I won’t be drinking any tonight either.” When she looked at you with curious eyes, head tilted to the side, you elaborated, “I refrained from drinking while I was pregnant with my daughter. I intend to refrain during this pregnancy as well.” 

She took a long pull from the bottle before calling over a half-dressed maid. “Find something non-alcohol for Mrs. Shelby to drink.” The maid scuttled away and returned shortly with a chilled drink for you. You smelled it hesitantly, and Tatiana laughed. “It is just juice, Eleanora.”

“It’s strange,” you noted, sipping on the sweet drink she had the maid retrieve for you. “You speak to me as if you want to be my friend, and yet you would fuck my husband the minute my back is turned.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Your husband is a very handsome man.”

“I’m well aware, thank you.”

“We both know he won’t touch me without your approval. You have him on a tight leash.” She looked you over, eyes scanning you from head to toe. “I’m impressed.”

“It took a very long time for that leash to be tightened,” you muttered behind your glass, your gaze averted.

“His behavior with you has even caused my aunt to wonder who it is that’s truly pulling the strings for this little business arrangement,” she stated, and you knew without a doubt she was prying for information. 

“It certainly isn’t me,” you answered. “I wouldn’t have gone into business with you people even if I had been desperate. It’s led to nothing good. Thomas was hospitalized, our daughter threatened, and me…” You thought of how lonely you felt during Thomas’s hospitalization, how inadequate you felt as your stomach slowly grew rounder and rounder, how you still feared for the wellbeing of both Georgie and the little life inside you, how helpless and fearful you’d been Thomas’s first night home from the hospital. Your hand flew to your neck, gently pressing against the bruised flesh. “Well, the past few months haven’t exactly been easy for me.”

Silence settled between the two of you and you took the time to observe the room. There were women with cocks in their mouths, men with cocks in their mouths, and more than a few women with their tits out for all to see. Some of the people in the room had broken off into couples - and even a few groups - to rut against one another like animals. It was certainly nothing you’d ever seen so openly before. 

Even John and Esme’s semi-public sex in the office wasn’t even half as scandalous as this.

“I saw the way that the Jew was looking at you in the vault,” Tatiana spoke up from beside you, watching you closely to observe your reaction. You raised a curious brow at her. What was she getting at? “I want your husband. The Jew wants you. Perhaps an arrangement can be made for the four of us. It would certainly make for an interesting evening.”

You snorted at the thought of that. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. Thomas certainly wouldn’t appreciate Alfie being involved. He’s a jealous man and hasn’t quite gotten over the fact that Alfie’s fucked me before.”

“The Jew?” she asked incredulously, brows raised in astonishment. She brushed it off quickly, continuing, “No matter. The three of us, then.”

The corners of your mouth curved up in amusement. She was persistent, you’d give her that. “I’m afraid Thomas and I will have to pass. We’re both jealous people by nature, don’t really like to share.” Your lips curled into a full smile when Thomas entered the room, his haunting eyes landing on you within seconds. “But if you could direct Thomas and I to a private room later, we’d be more than happy to participate in the activities of this... _ event _ .” You smiled at her before adding, “Alone.”

“Of course, Eleanora,” she conceded as Thomas sat to your other side, his arm wrapping lazily around your shoulder. She stood to leave, turning back to you to say, “Find me when you’d like to be shown to a room for the night.”

“Are you making friends?” Thomas teased after she had left you alone, nuzzling into your neck.

“Hardly,” you scoffed. “She’s getting clever in her attempts to fuck you. She propositioned me, wanting the three of us to...partake in the activities of the evening together.”

He raised a brow at that. “Did she now?” He pulled away from you slightly, sipping from his glass as his gaze skipped over the other people in the room. “Maybe we could-”

You cut him off. “Thomas,” you said his name as a warning, daring him to continue what he had been about to say. Instead, he grinned at you, his dimples making an appearance on his cheeks. The sight made you bold. “She even suggested we invite Alfie to join the three of us. Said that she wanted to fuck you, and she seemed to think that Alfie wanted to fuck me. I turned her down, of course.”

“Good,” he growled, gripping your chin in his hand and pulling you into his kiss. You nipped at his lips. “You belong to me, Eleanora Shelby. Alfie Solomons can go fuck himself.”

You sighed happily as his lips trailed across your jaw and down your neck, pressing soft kisses to the bruises that dotted the skin in silent apology. “Should we have Tatiana show us to our room for the evening, or do you want to partake in voyeurism for a bit longer?” you asked, cocking your head towards the other people having sex in the midst of all the activity in the room. You leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I warn you though, it won’t be long before I’m aching to have you inside of me. If you take too long enjoying the view I may just mount you here, Thomas.”

His haunting eyes latched onto you possessively, scanning your form from head to toe and pausing briefly on your breasts. “I’m not fuckin’ you in front of all of these people, love.”

“Then take me to bed, Thomas,” you breathed, your hand sliding over his lap, dragging your nails along his clothed length and grinning as it hardened under your touch.

“Fuckin’ hell, Nora,” he hissed, grabbing your hand in his to stop your ministrations. 

It didn’t take long for him to lead you from the room, following instructions that Tatiana had given him to find an unused bedroom for the night, and as soon as the door was closed behind him he had you pressed against it, sucking and nipping at the skin above your collarbone while one hand teased you beneath your dress and the other cupped your breast.

“Eager?” you teased as you tugged at his clothes, desperate to get him naked. 

“Says the woman that threatened to mount me in the middle of that mad house,” he retorted, pulling your dress over your head, your shift very quickly following it to a growing pile on the floor.

“Pregnancy makes me a little more wanton than usual,” you reasoned as he turned you around to face the door.

Thomas had you against the door that night, and again on the bed with you on your hands and knees as his fingers dug into your hips behind you. After you were both sated and exhausted, chests heaving and breathless, he sat with his back against the headboard and your head rested on his thigh, one hand combing through your hair while the other held his cigarette. You used one hand to trace the lines of the tattoo on his chest while the other cradled your stomach.

“Thank you for bringing me with you tonight.” You lifted your gaze to meet his haunting eyes through the haze of cigarette smoke. “I know you didn’t want me here, but I just...I’m terrified you’re going to hurt me again, Thomas. Even if it’s unintentional.”

He frowned down at you, his brows furrowed. “Why can’t you trust me after all this time, Nora?”

“Because I’ve trusted you before and it ended with me heartbroken and alone and pregnant.” You rubbed your hand over your stomach absentmindedly. “We can already check the pregnant box. I really don’t want to check those other boxes, Thomas, but something Tatiana said to me months ago is still bothering me.”

“Why the fuck are you listening to anything she says?” His tone was indicative of his irritation, and his eyes flashed with annoyance.

“Because it was true, Thomas.” You reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his sharp cheekbone. “She told me handsome men have a weakness for beautiful women.  _ You  _ have a weakness for beautiful women, Thomas. Grace Burgess, May Carlton, even Tatiana herself.”

“ _ You _ , Nora,” he countered. “You, the mother of my child, my children. You, my wife. You, my partner in fuckin’ everything.” You smiled softly at him, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. His hand shifted from your hair to the swell of your stomach, his fingers splaying over the expanse of bare skin. “I know I hurt you in the past, know that I fucked up. I won’t make those mistakes again, love.”

You smiled at him one last time before your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling of his warm touch on your stomach and his familiar scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke lulling you to sleep after a long day.

“Thomas,” you called his name softly, eyes still closed as his fingers brushed soothing patterns across the skin of your rounded stomach. 

“Hm?”

You stifled a yawn as your eyes opened and found his haunting gaze. “Promise me we’ll never come to another orgy again.”

He laughed, the vibrations of it jarring you slightly. “I’ll happily promise that, love.”

You had no doubt that was a promise he would have no trouble keeping.


	28. act xxi. it’s nice to have your friends ‘round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You glanced at her over your shoulders as you pulled the kettle from the cupboard to make tea. “Friends? Is that what we are?” You snorted in disbelief as you grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and placed it in front of her, watching as her dark eyes widened in surprise. “If you’re not going to leave, I may as well be a good hostess.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited as always

The following week, Thomas was gone more often than not. He left early in the morning to start his day at the office before the others arrived, and he returned late at night - sometimes during the earliest hours of the morning - after checking in with the Lees and the tunnelers in preparation of the robbery that was swiftly approaching. 

He hardly slept when he was home, and it was starting to worry you, making the little life within you just as restless as her father and mother. 

In turn, you hardly slept either.

Instead, you’d fallen into a routine of putting Georgie to sleep in the evening after reading to her, followed by staying up late, either sat in front of the fire and reading from one of you many books or reviewing documents for the Shelby Charity Foundation and the upcoming opening of the Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children, the latest project that Thomas had put you in charge of - in his name, of course. When Thomas finally came home, whether it be at midnight or three in the morning, you’d coax him into bed if only for a few hours before he was out of bed and dressing before leaving once again. 

He hardly slept, though. More often than not, he would stay awake, tracing lazy patterns over your rounded stomach while you were lulled to sleep by his touch. It was the little moments that you were afforded to forget about all of the terrible things that had happened to your family in the past eight months - your unavoidable insecurities, taking a bullet for Thomas and nearly losing your baby, killing a man and suffering from a brief mental breakdown, Georgie being threatened, Thomas being hospitalized. All of the bad seemed to overwhelm the good, but in the early hours of the morning, held in Thomas’s arms as he whispered his promises of a normal life after this last job, you could forget the bad for a few hours. 

Thomas had even taken to talking to the little life inside of you during his sleepless nights. You’d fall asleep in his arms only to be woken by the baby restlessly moving within you in response to her father’s voice, and seeing him speak to your rounded stomach so softly - something so entirely uncharacteristic for Thomas - made you smile and pull him into a deep kiss.

Which inevitably led to you naked and straddling him, his hands tracing all of the growing curves of your body as you moved above him. 

(There was something about Thomas peeling away his layers of calm intimidation to reveal the tender man beneath that made you want him more than you ever had, and you could only blame the pregnancy for your wanton behavior for so long).

There was one night during that week that your routine had been interrupted. 

You were once again reviewing documents for the opening of the Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children, not wanting anything to be missed or neglected in preparation of the event, when you heard the door opening and closing beyond the door of Thomas's office. At first you thought it was just Thomas returning home for the evening, but the sound of the shoes against the floor quickly ruled him and any of the other Shelby boys out. 

Rather than heavy footfalls, you could hear the sounds of heels clicking across the wooden floors as they approached. “Pol?” you called out, hand combing through the contents of Thomas’s desk drawers to find the gun he kept hidden there just in case. “Is that you?”

No answer was given as the sounds grew closer and closer, and your hand felt the cold steel of the gun just as the person came to a momentary stop outside of the office. You hastily checked that it was loaded before raising it towards the door, holding your breath.

The door creaked open slowly, admitting the intruder into the room. You let out a deep breath as they entered. “Hello, Eleanora,” she greeted kindly, as if she didn’t have a gun pointed directly at her.

“Fucking hell, Tatiana.” You put the gun back into the desk drawer and sat down, your palm rubbing circles over your stomach in an attempt to calm your racing heartbeat. “I could have shot you.”

She looked you up and down, a brow raised as she took in your distressed appearance before commenting, “You’re violent like your husband, then?”

You ignored her question. “How did you get in here?” you questioned as she tossed her coat over the arm of the sofa and proceeded to pour herself a drink.

“Through the front door.”

“The door was locked.” You distinctly remembered telling Mary to lock up for the night before she retired for the evening, knowing that Thomas would have a key to get in when he returned home that night.

She shrugged, making herself at home on the sofa as she lounged on it, sipping from her drink. “Was it?” she asked, a teasing glint in her dark eyes. 

You rubbed fingers over your brow, trying to stave off the oncoming headache. “Thomas isn’t here, Tatiana,” you told her exasperatedly. 

“I know that. I’m not here to see your husband.”

“Then what are you doing in my house at...” You trailed off, casting a glance at the clock across the room. “Two in the morning?”

“I was bored.”

“Bored? Isn’t there a servant boy you could entertain yourself with at the palace? Was it really necessary to break into my home?”

Again, she shrugged, trying to hide the slight curve of her lips behind her glass as she answered, “You’re entertaining.”

“I don’t intentionally try to entertain you.” You lowered your voice to just above a whisper before adding, mostly to yourself, “It’s not my fault that you find my insults entertaining.”

“That is exactly why you are entertaining, Eleanora,” she said brightly, sitting up and looking at you with a delighted expression on her face. “You do not treat me differently because of my title or because of where I come from.”

“I already told you, your title doesn’t mean shit in my house,” you repeated, recalling the first conversation you’d had with her in Thomas’s office. You sighed. “Although, I s’pose I can understand.”

She looked at you curiously, head tilted slightly. “Oh?”

“Being Thomas Shelby’s woman doesn’t exactly make it easy to make friends,” you admitted, recalling how soon the girls you’d been friends with prior to meeting the Shelby brothers had stopped speaking to you once they realized who you’d been engaging in a romantic relationship with. “People are either scared of my husband or they want something from him. That’s why my closest friends are his sister and his sister-in-law.”

She raised a brow. “And the Jew,” she teased. “Or was that always a romantic relationship?”

“That,” you began, standing slowly, “is none of your concern, Tatiana.”

She smiled at you, trailing behind you as you walked from the office to the kitchen. “Come now, Eleanora. Friends tell each other things like that, no?”

You glanced at her over your shoulders as you pulled the kettle from the cupboard to make tea. “Friends? Is that what we are?” You snorted in disbelief as you grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and placed it in front of her, watching as her dark eyes widened in surprise. “If you’re not going to leave, I may as well be a good hostess.” 

You felt her eyes on you, watching you with curiosity as you made yourself tea and poured the steaming drink into a cup. “Why don’t you have your household staff make your tea for you?”

“Because it’s two in the morning. Most people are asleep at this time,” you deadpanned, blowing on the steaming liquid in an attempt to cool it enough to drink. “I wasn’t raised with servants to wait on me hand and foot my entire life. Even now, having a household staff is still strange to me.” You took a sip of the tea, letting the hot drink warm you from the inside, staving off the winter chill that was creeping through the house. 

“I used to clean my home by myself. I used to cook for myself, even cooked for Thomas a few times in the early days of our relationship. I used to care for my young cousins when my uncle asked me to. Now I have a maid to clean, a chef to cook, and a nanny to care for my daughter.” You smiled amicably at her - surprising both her and yourself - over the rim of your cup before adding, “I miss mundane things like that every now and then.”

You placed the kettle on a tray beside your half-empty cup and lifted it, balancing it against the swell of your stomach. “Come. It’s cold in here, and I’d prefer to sit in front of the fire.” You led her through the house, quietly listening as she made comments about the portraits that hung along the walls - you had to stop yourself from snorting in amusement when she made a smart comment about one of the many portraits of Thomas with his horses - and as she asked inane questions that you didn’t bother to answer. 

The fire in the drawing room was nearly snuffed out, only a few embers remaining in the fireplace, but it was nothing that some kindling couldn’t solve. Soon, a roaring fire was casting warm light around the room and driving away the chill around you. Despite the added warmth from the fire, you curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap as you sipped your tea, watching Tatiana from the corner of your eye as she drank directly from the bottle.

“You and Mr. Shelby make cute children,” she commented casually as she looked up at the portrait of your little family that Thomas had insisted be painted after your marriage. You cradled your stomach, knowing that Thomas was sure to insist on a new portrait once the baby was born. “How old is your daughter?”

“She’ll be two this month,” you answered, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was this her making small talk or was there something more that she was digging for?

“You and Mr. Shelby have been married for less than a year, correct?” Her gaze skipped over to you, inquisitive eyes searching your face. “And that was after he left another woman at the altar, yes?”

“Thomas and I have a complicated history,” you answered vaguely, eyeing her over the rim of your cup. “But I know how people in business with Thomas operate, Tatiana. I’m sure you are well aware of that history.”

“You could say that,” she answered just as vaguely before turning her gaze back to the family portrait. “Why do you think my aunt wanted to offer me to him despite knowing about his marriage to you? We knew about yours and Mr. Shelby's complicated history from the very beginning. The broken engagement, your two years in London, his engagement to the Irish woman, your marriage on the day he was supposed to marry the other woman. Though you did surprise me when you told me about you fucking the Jew. We didn’t know about that." A small laugh escaped her at the mention of your relationship with Alfie, eyeing you coyly from the corner of her eye. "Am I correct to assume that happened while you were in London?”

You rolled your eyes and didn't deign to answer her. “Why are you really here, Tatiana?” you asked instead, unable to indulge her any longer.

“I told you, Eleanora. I was bored.”

You shook your head, not believing her a single bit. “No, Tatiana. Like I said,” you started, “if you were bored you would have found a servant boy to keep you entertained. You wouldn’t have shown up at my house at two in the morning on the off chance that I was still awake and willing to actually entertain you.”

“You have been a very pleasant hostess,” she commented, smiling at you knowingly before sighing and setting the bottle of whiskey down on the side table. “I was curious to find out how much your husband has told you about the business between him and my family. How much do you know, Eleanora?”

You knew all of it, of course. The tanks, the jewels, the train. Thomas hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with all of the information in the beginning, but he kept his promise to tell you everything in the end. You also knew about the tunnel, the plan to rob the vault, the plan to sabotage the tanks before delivery. You raised your chin, and asked her the same in return, “How much do you know, Tatiana?” 

She grinned at the challenge, leaning in slightly as if to share a secret. “I know that Mr. Shelby will rob the vault.”

You stiffened, handing settling over your stomach protectively. “What makes you say that?” you asked, keeping your voice as level as possible.

She laughed, leaning back and relaxing against the sofa. “Because that is what I hired him to do.” She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply as her eyes danced across the room with an amused glint in them. “Many of those jewels belong to me, not the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess.”

You couldn’t decide if this was her attempting to fool you into revealing more or if she was actually genuine in telling you that she was working against her family with Thomas’s help. Your heart was racing in your chest, and the little life within you was growing restless with your unease. 

“There’s no need to be so worried, Eleanora. We are friends. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” you countered.

She raised a brow, looking at you through the haze of cigarette smoke. “Have I lied to you even once since we met?”

You took a moment to think about it. She had (very bluntly) told you that her uncle had ordered her to seduce Thomas. She had (very bluntly) told you that her aunt wanted to offer her as part of the business deal with Thomas. She had (very bluntly) told you that she wanted to fuck your husband. She hadn’t been someone to hold back what she was really thinking and didn’t lie about what she wanted. 

“You lied about why you came here tonight,” you tried, though the smile she gave you in return was victorious, knowing that you had nothing better to counter with.

“I really was bored,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head. “I just chose to kill two birds with one stone by coming here. You sated my curiosity and cured my boredom, Eleanora.”

“If that’s the case, and you truly won’t lie to me, tell me everything about your deal with Thomas,” you ordered, meeting her challenging gaze straight on. 

And so you sat in the drawing room for twenty minutes, you sipping on your cooling tea and she sipping on the bottle of whiskey you’d given her, while she told you all about the deal that she had worked out with Thomas. You listened closely, interjecting with questions occasionally, and she was quick to allay your fears of you or your children being harmed in retribution for Thomas double-crossing her aunt and uncle.

“I believe your husband has contingencies in place,” she assured you, though she wasn’t able to elaborate on what those contingencies were. It was something you would need to ask Thomas directly. 

Just as your eyelids were starting to grow heavy and your back was beginning to ache, Tatiana said her goodbyes, thanking you for playing hostess and keeping her entertained for the evening with your company. 

As you were gathering her coat from the office where she’d left it, Thomas finally returned, his haunting eyes narrowing when he saw your uninvited guest. He kept quiet and observed, likely trying to figure out what the hell Tatiana was doing in your house at such a late hour. You ignored his questioning looks when you showed her to the door and watched as she left, wrapping your robe tightly around you to protect you from the chill of the winter air.

Thomas was waiting for you when you returned inside and locked the door behind you - ensuring that it was actually locked this time to prevent any uninvited house guests. “What was the Duchess doing here, Nora?” he asked, unable to mask the curiosity and annoyance in his voice.

You shrugged as you walked past him towards the stairs, the corners of your mouth curling up into a smile. You’d certainly need to speak with him about what she had told you, but that could wait until morning. Instead, you answered, “She was bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was never meant to be an actual part of the overall story, it kinda just happened i guess?


	29. act xxii. don’t tell me why (i already know)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You met her gaze, your expression stony. “I don’t need Thomas to pull the trigger for me, Pol.”
> 
> She scoffed, shaking her head as her gaze flitted around the kitchen, taking in the bloody scene before her eyes settled on you once again. “You truly are a Shelby, aren’t you?”

The day of the opening for the Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children had gone just as planned - Thomas's speech, taking pictures for the papers, speaking with donors for the Shelby Charity Foundation - until you realized Georgie was nowhere to be found.

Time stood still when you met Thomas’s haunting eyes through the crowd as the other’s frantically searched for your daughter, but she was gone, taken to be used against her father.

It was your worst nightmare, though there was no waking up from this. 

When you’d been ushered back to the office to wait for someone, anyone to call Thomas with information about Georgie, you could hardly breathe. You sat in a chair stiffly, a hand rubbing soothing circles over the swell of your stomach in a futile attempt to calm you, as Thomas’s anger and fear overwhelmed him. You fidgeted in your seat, not listening to Ada and Polly’s words of reassurance. The only thing you could hear as you waited for the phone to ring was the thundering of your heartbeat in your ears. 

And then Thomas spoke with Father Hughes.

It wasn’t long after he returned to the office, soaking wet from the downpour outside, that he started blaming everyone, specifically the woman - Polly, Esme, Linda, Ada. John and Arthur hadn’t taken kindly to their wives being blamed for Georgie’s kidnapping, and soon the boys were shouting across the table at one another. 

It was driving you fucking mad.

You stood abruptly, taking his face between your hands and forcing him to look at you. “Thomas, stop blaming other people and do whatever the fuck it is that you need to do to get our daughter back,” you cried, the unshed tears in your eyes finally spilling over and trailing down your cheeks. “Just get out daughter back, Thomas. Get our Georgie back.”

He pulled your into his arms, holding you as you sobbed into his shoulder and as he barked out orders to John and Arthur, to Ada and Polly. After whispering soothing words, promises to bring your little girl home, Thomas pressed a final kiss to your forehead before ushering you to where Ada and Polly waited for you, ordered to take you home and keep you company as you waited for your family to be reunited.

And so you waited and waited and waited.

You had hardly eaten throughout the following day, had hardly spoken to Ada and Polly, had hardly done anything but sit in Thomas’s office, staring at the picture of you and Georgie that he kept on his desk as you kept replaying that afternoon over and over and over again in your head in an attempt to figure out what had gone wrong, what had happened that made you take your eyes off of your daughter for even a moment. 

Thomas had given his speech, had even thanked you for your work in organizing the event and getting everything prepared for the opening, and then you’d posed for the papers with the family next to Thomas, Georgie situated on his hip as your hand rested on your rounded stomach. Thomas had wanted to bring attention to his new family-man image, and you’d been more than happy to comply. Afterwards, Thomas had handed Georgie to the nanny while you and him spoke with donors, he had been sure of it.

You were pulled from your thoughts when Mary poked her head into the office, asking if there was anything she could get for you.

You shook your head. “Mary, have you seen Edith?” you asked the housekeeper, ignoring the older woman’s look of confusion. 

“I believe she’s in the kitchen, Mrs. Shelby,” she answered. “Should I fetch her for you?”

You shook your head and smiled softly at the woman. “No, that’s fine, Mary. I’ll go speak to her myself.” You started to dig through the drawers of Thomas’s desk. Without looking up, you added, “You can be dismissed for the evening. There’s nothing that I can do but wait at this point, and I have Polly and Ada to wait with me. There’s no need for you to sacrifice your sleep as well.”

The housekeeper hesitantly agreed, concern for you and Thomas and Georgie clear on her face as she said goodnight and took her leave. Once you were sure she was gone, you pulled the gun Thomas always had hidden in his desk from the drawer and placed it on the wooden surface, staring at it intently as you leaned back in his chair, weighing your options.

After a moment, you’d decided. You picked up the gun and made your way to the kitchen, slinking past Ada and Polly without drawing their attention.

The nanny was sat at the table, quietly sipping on a glass of amber liquid - your whiskey, if you had to take a guess - as she read from one of the well-loved novels out of your library. She looked up when she noticed your presence, startled. “Mrs. Shelby!” she greeted, the surprise in her voice unconcealed. “I wasn’t expecting you! Would you like me to make you some tea?”

“I can manage on my own, thank you.” You made your way across the room, pulling the kettle and a cup from the cupboard before going about your task of making tea. “You’re awfully calm for a woman who’s job is at risk,” you commented, keeping your back turned to her as you carefully, quietly set the gun down on the surface of the worktop.

You heard the sound of pages turning as she closed the book and set it down on the table. “There is no use in panicking. I have prayed for Georgie’s safe return, Mrs. Shelby. I have faith that the Lord will guide Mr. Shelby in returning your daughter safely.”

You ignored her preaching, occupying yourself with the whistling tea kettle instead. As you poured a cup of tea for yourself you asked, “How long have you worked for him, Edith?”

There was a brief pause before she finally responded, “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.” You turned around, blowing on the hot liquid in your cup. Your gaze flicked up to meet her hazel eyes, a façade of ignorance etched across her features. “How long have you worked for Father Hughes? Did he plant you in my household, or did he approach you after I hired you as Georgie’s nanny?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Shelby,” she attempted, looking anywhere but at you. 

“Thomas said he handed our daughter to you this afternoon after we posed for the papers. He’s far too observant, too detail-oriented to have forgotten who he gave Georgie to.”

“He did not,” she argued. “Your husband only recently had a traumatic head injury, Mrs. Shelby. Perhaps he’s having trouble recalling the events of today.” You turned away from her and set your cup down when she approached, angling your body to hide the gun as she came to a stop next to you, placing one hand on your back in an attempt to comfort you while the other hand was braced against the worktop. “It’s been a very stressful day, Mrs. Shelby. You should rest and relax, keep your stress levels down for the baby.”

“How can I relax when my little girl was taken from me, Edith?” you bit out. “How can I possibly not be fucking stressed about that?”

“Have faith that Mr. Shelby will bring her home safely, Mrs. Shelby. I’m sure Georgie will be home, safe and sound, before long.” There was something in her voice, something that told you she knew far more than she let on, something that told you she was absolutely certain that Thomas would do whatever it was that Hughes had asked in order to get Georgie home safely.

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye, and seeing her sweet yet smug smile flipped a switch within you. You pulled a knife from the butcher block and forced it through the flesh and bone of her hand, her eyes wide with shock as she cried out in pain. Before she had a chance to pull the knife from her hand, you had the muzzle of the pistol pressed against her forehead. “How long have you worked for Hughes, Edith? The fucking truth this time.”

Her eyes widened, glancing at the gun pressed to her head before her gaze met yours again. “Don’t do anything rash, Mrs. Shelby. You’re worried for your daughter, I understand that, but you don’t need to do this,” she tried to reason with you, but it only served to anger you further.

You twisted the knife in her hand, and her face contorted in pain as she cried out. 

“How long, Edith?” You twisted the knife again, in the opposite direction this time.

“Three years! For three years! Please, Mrs. Shelby. Stop, please!” she begged, reaching for the knife. She withdrew her hands when you pressed the gun harder against her skin. “Please, Mrs. Shelby. I only did what was asked of me.”

Your eyes flitted over her features, and you ignored the tears that were trailing down her face. Did she care that Georgie had likely cried when she was given to a strange man? Did she care that Georgie had likely cried for her mother and father wherever she was being held? Did she care that Georgie was likely scared and alone, in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, being used as a tool to ensure her father’s cooperation?

“So Hughes planted you in my household,” you commented, eyes narrowed at her. “Was your entire resume a lie, Edith? Were your references real?”

She swallowed thickly, her hazel gaze flitting back and forth between the knife sticking out of her hand and the gun pressed to her head. “N-no. They were other members of the Economic League working for Hughes.” You twisted the knife again, watching as she grit her teeth to stop from crying out. “Please, Mrs. Shelby. Georgie won’t be harmed so long as Mr. Shelby does as Father Hughes asked. Nothing will happen to her.”

“Give me one good fucking reason to not shoot you, Edith.” Her eyes widened, and you could see the panic in her eyes as she mumbled her reasons. “Speak up, Edith. I can’t fucking hear you.”

“Please, Mrs. Shelby,” she begged. “I promise nothing bad will happen to your daughter. I wouldn’t have gone along with the plan if that were the case. I love your daughter, Mrs. Shelby. I’d never want to see her hurt. I promise she won’t-”

“Not good enough, Edith,” you interrupted.

You watched with disinterest as your words began to sink in, a look of horrified understanding pulling at her features. She begged through her tears, pleaded for her life, but it all went unacknowledged as you pulled the trigger, putting an end to her blubbering. You pulled the knife from her hand, watching her lifeless body crumple to the ground. 

It didn’t take long for Polly to come running into the kitchen, her frantic movements coming to complete halt as she found you, still stood at the counter and calmly sipping your tea as you stared down at the body of the nanny.

“Well shit,” she commented, approaching you slowly. “What-”

You cut her off, muttering, “She worked for Hughes. She helped him take my Georgie.” You could feel Polly’s eyes on you, looking for any sign of distress. “She gave my little girl to that bastard to use against Thomas.”

Polly’s gaze flickered back and forth from the young woman on the floor, her head surrounded by a growing pool of blood, to you as your eyes remained firmly fixed on the body, trickles of the woman’s blood mingling with the tears on your cheeks. “What’s done is done,” Polly commented, reaching towards one of the clean rags on the worktop and wetting it in the sink. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You sat at the table silently as Polly dragged the wet rag over your face and hands, cleaning them of all traces of blood. The only evidence that you’d been responsible for the murder of the woman was the blood that stained the front of your nightgown once Polly was through with cleaning you up. 

“I killed her, Pol,” you muttered between sips of your now cold tea.

Polly raised a brow, drinking directly from the bottle of whiskey that the nanny had taken for herself. “That’s plainly obvious, Nora.”

“She deserved it. She put my Georgie in danger.” You glanced back at the body, staring at the mess you’d made of her face. “She deserved it,” you repeated, feeling strangely calm about the entire ordeal. It was nothing like how you felt the night you’d put a bullet between Changretta’s eyes. Your hands didn’t tremble, you didn’t feel like retching at the sight of the dead woman, you didn’t cry in disbelief. There was no guilt, only satisfaction that there was one less threat to your family.

Polly stared at you, quietly observing, when your eyes flitted to hers, a mix of emotions battling within her eyes. “Tommy’s changed you, dear.” She drank deeply from the bottle before adding, “The Nora I met six years ago wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.”

You shook your head. “The Nora you met six years ago wasn’t a mother, Pol. Didn’t you kill Major Campbell for what he did to Michael? How is this any different?” She averted her gaze, unable to answer. “It’s not, Pol,” you whispered, shaking your head and looking up at the ceiling. “She put my daughter in danger, and anyone that threatens or hurts my family deserves their death. If it hadn’t been by my hand, it would’ve been by Thomas’s.”

“Then you should have let Tommy handle it,” she countered. 

You met her gaze, your expression stony. “I don’t need Thomas to pull the trigger for me, Pol.”

She scoffed, shaking her head as her gaze flitted around the kitchen, taking in the bloody scene before her eyes settled on you once again. “You truly are a Shelby, aren’t you?”

"Me killing her was merciful," you reasoned. "Thomas would have made her suffer for her part in kidnapping our Georgie." You imagined it wasn't so different to what Vicente Changretta's fate would have been if you hadn't pulled the trigger first.

"Is that what you'll tell yourself?" she asked, a bitter tone to her voice that had never been directed at you before. "Tommy's changed you, Nora."

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you as you sipped on your respective drinks, only looking up at one another occasionally. You fidgeted restlessly, bouncing your leg and tapping your fingers against the surface of the table. You could see that it was driving Polly absolutely mad, but you couldn’t help it. Your daughter was out there somewhere, Thomas was down in the tunnels again, and you were home waiting and waiting and waiting. 

Just as Polly looked ready to crack, Ada bounded into the kitchen. “Michael is…” She trailed off, her eyes growing wide as she took in the state of the kitchen and your bloody clothes. “What the hell happened?”

“Nora shot the nanny,” Polly answered bluntly, quirking a brow at you as you stood. 

“Ada, what about Michael?” you asked, heart pounding against your chest in anticipation as you held your breath.

Ada ignored the mess in the kitchen to smile at you. “He’s here, Nora. Georgie’s safe. She’s home.”

You moved as fast as your legs would allow, waddling through the halls and towards the drawing room where Ada told you Michael was waiting. A sob escaped you when you laid eyes on Georgie being held in Michael’s arms, and you rushed forward to take your daughter in your arms. Tears streamed down your face as you took in her appearance - despite red, swollen eyes from crying, she seemed to be unharmed, though you could only imagine the mental scars that this would leave on her. 

After pressing kisses across Georgie’s chubby cheeks and getting her to giggle happily, you pulled Michael into as tight a hug as your rounded stomach would allow. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” You pressed kisses to his cheek between thanking him, and when you pulled away, there was a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. You glanced over your shoulder, eyeing Polly before whispering to him, “I hope you killed the bastard. For what he did to my Georgie, and for what he did to you.”

His eyes widened at the acknowledgement, clearly unaware that Thomas had shared that with you. You simply pressed another kiss to his cheek before patting it tenderly, moving away to allow Polly time with her son while you held Georgie tightly, unwilling to let her go ever again.

You held her in your arms, rocking her gently in your arms as you paced in front of the roaring fire, for what seemed like hours. Polly and Michael sat in the corner, in quiet discussion, though Polly certainly didn’t seem pleased with what Michael had done to get Georgie back. Ada had curled up at the other end of the sofa, nursing a drink and trying to engage you in conversation every now and then, but you'd hardly been paying attention to what she said. 

Instead, your thoughts were down in the tunnel, wondering if Thomas was okay. Had he let his demons take over in the tunnel? Was he still down there, thinking your daughter was still in danger? You had to take deep breaths often to stave off the panic that was slowly rising with each passing minute that he didn’t return home. 

Just after midnight, the sounds of the front door opening and closing pulled you from the trance you’d been in, and you hurried to the front of the house as fast as you could without jostling Georgie too much, though she woke nonetheless. You’d hardly taken two steps towards Thomas in the foyer when he was in front of you, wrapping his arms around you and Georgie. You could see his tears leaving streaks across the dirt that was caked onto his face, and you could feel your own tears trailing over your cheeks and dripping from your chin. 

“She’s safe,” you breathed against his neck. “Our little girl is safe.”

He took your face between his hands and kissed you deeply, pulling away slightly to press a light kiss to Georgie’s forehead. You smiled down at your daughter as her giggles quickly turned into a big yawn and she nuzzled sleepily against your shoulder.

After you tucked Georgie into your bed for the night and helped Ada get settled in one of the guest rooms, you helped Thomas clean. You could see the fear that still lingered in his haunting eyes, his gaze darted to the door as you helped him scrub the dirt away from his body. His muscles jumped under your touch, as if he was primed to sprint from the room at the smallest sign of distress from your daughter. 

When he finally allowed himself to relax, to acknowledge that your daughter had been returned home safely, that the worst of your fears hadn’t been realized that night, he noticed the blood that stained the front of your nightgown. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as he looked you over.

His question startled you - confused you, even - before you remembered that you hadn’t changed out of your bloodied clothes. “No,” you assured him, dragging the rag across his chest. “We will need a new nanny, though. And someone to take care of the mess in the kitchen. Preferably before the rest of the staff wakes up in a few hours.”

His haunting eyes lifted from the blood across the middle of your nightgown to meet yours. “What did you do, love?”

“I took care of a threat against our family, just like I told you I would if there was ever the need to.” He remained silent, his eyes locked on you as you averted your gaze. He lifted his hand out of the water and cupped your cheek, the heat from the bath water seeping into your skin. You sighed at his touch and met his gaze. “Edith was working with Hughes. She gave Georgie to him, our Georgie. I made sure she’d never threaten our family again.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern clear in both his voice and his expression. 

You bit your lip and nodded, concentrating on cleaning the dirt from his neck and shoulders. “I understand now,” you finally breathed. “I know why you do it.”

“Understand what, love?” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you leaned into the touch. “Why I do what?”

“Pull the trigger,” you answered vaguely before elaborating, “When Georgie was taken, all I could think of was how  _ powerless  _ I was. When you went down into the tunnel to do what Hughes had asked in order to get our Georgie back, all I could think about was how  _ useless  _ I was. Those people took our daughter, and there was nothing I could do but sit and wait and think of how scared Georgie must have been, how absolutely fucking terrified she was without us.” You felt fresh tears forming in your eyes, blurring your vision. “And then Edith had the audacity to try to explain why she did it all while claiming that she loved our daughter and would never let her be hurt. She claimed to love our daughter, and yet she gave him to that bastard without a second thought, allowed him to use her against us, to mentally scar her for potentially the rest of her life.” 

Tears streamed down your face as Thomas wrapped his arms around you, soaking the fabric of your nightgown and pulling you as close as you could possibly get with the side of the tub and your rounded stomach between you. “It’s okay, love,” he soothed, a hand smoothing your hair back as you cried against his wet skin. “It’s okay. Georgie’s home. Our Georgie's safe. It's okay,” he said, and you had no doubt that he was trying to reassure himself as much as he was trying to reassure you.

“In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve had to live through my worst fear, Thomas. I had to mentally prepare myself for the worst possible outcome - that Hughes would hurt our Georgie, that something would happen to you in that fucking tunnel - and when I realized that Edith had been responsible for that, I…” Your voice broke, a sob tearing through you as you recalled the absolute agony you had felt at the possibility that your daughter wouldn’t be coming home to you. Thomas brushed away your tears as you sniffled.

After Thomas had dried and dressed for bed and helped you into a clean nightgown, you slipped into bed while Thomas disappeared to get someone to take care of the mess in the kitchen before the sun came up. When he returned, he took his place in bed opposite you, one of you on either side of Georgie as she slept soundly between you. 

You met his gaze over Georgie’s head, the moonlight from outside reflecting in his haunting eyes, and your hand reached out for his, tangling your fingers together, anchoring one another. You knew that he was likely to not sleep at all that night, too afraid that the nightmares would plague him, and he wouldn’t risk that with Georgie in the bed. You knew that you were unlikely to sleep, not wanting to take your eyes off of Georgie and not wanting to relive the worst day of your life over and over and over again in your dreams. 

It was silent for a long moment, neither of you quite wanting to disrupt the peace of the moment, but eventually you needed to speak, needed to finish what you had been trying to tell him in the bathroom. You squeezed his hand gently, drawing his attention to you before you whispered, “I pulled the trigger because she put our daughter in danger, because she put someone I love in danger, because she was a threat to our family. I know why you pull the trigger, Thomas.” You smiled sadly and sighed, thinking back to Polly's words. Was Thomas truly changing you? "We're never going to be a normal family, are we?"

He returned your sad smile, squeezing your hand gently. "I don't know, Nora. I really don't."

You nodded, the smile slipping from your face. His answer was telling enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more part before we get into a string of interludes i think?


	30. act xxiii. (don’t) put me on a pedestal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the hell was that, Thomas?” you asked, your irritation at the events of the past hour rising. “Is that the fucking deal you made? Me for them?” 
> 
> “I didn’t see any other way,” he tried to reason as he approached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited as always

The day that followed Georgie’s safe return home was filled with restless energy, your body ignoring your growing exhaustion and your nerves still abuzz with anxiety every time you took your eyes off of your daughter for even a moment. 

Thomas had left early the following morning after a sleepless night, holding you and Georgie in his arms for a moment longer than usual before pressing a kiss to each of your foreheads and leaving with the jewels that he had taken from the Russians’ vault the night before. 

In his absence, you stayed with Georgie all morning; you sat at the overly large breakfast table with her, laughing as she giggled delightfully and made a mess of both the table and herself; you played with her in the nursery after cleaning her up after breakfast, happily letting her pull toy after toy from the toy chest without a single complaint because it made her giggle endlessly; you read to her in front of the fire in the drawing room before her nap, smiling fondly at her as she yawned sleepily but fought to stay awake until you had finished the book she’d pulled from the lower shelf in her nursery; you held her tightly as she slept, fighting back tears at the thought of how close you’d come to losing your daughter, your Georgie and these little moments the meant the world to you.

Thomas returned home as your daughter slept, the sound of the heavy front door closing nearly jostling her from her sleep, but after rocking her softly and gently smoothing back her dark hair, she nestled against your chest and remained asleep, a little hand resting across the top of your rounded stomach.

You waited for him, unmoving. You knew that he’d eventually seek you out, even if it were after locking himself in his office for an hour to deal with whatever it was that had him leaving you so early that morning. 

It took less than five minutes for him to appear in the doorway, watching you and Georgie with a soft smile on his face. “How is she?” he asked, approaching quietly and settling on the sofa next to you. He brushed a finger over Georgie’s chubby cheek as his arm settled across the back of the sofa behind you, the fingers of his other hand tracing soothing circles over the nape of your neck.

You lifted your eyes from your daughter’s sleeping face to meet his haunting gaze. “She seems fine.” Your gaze flitted back to Georgie as your brows furrowed and your lips turned down into a frown. “She may be too young to be bothered by what happened now, but I worry for how this might affect her when she’s older. Is she going to have nightmares? Will she be afraid of strangers for the rest of her life? Is she going to be able to trust us to keep her safe?” You sighed, the weight of your worries heavy on your shoulders.

“We’ll just need to hope that she’s too young to remember any of this,” Thomas answered, his gaze locked onto your sleeping daughter. It was silent for a moment as you both stared down at Georgie, enjoying the temporary peace of the moment. “How are you?” Thomas finally asked. “Did you sleep at all?”

You shrugged slightly, trying not to bother Georgie. “Honestly, I still feel like I’m seconds away from panicking even though Georgie’s here with us. I can see that she’s safe, can hear her giggles, can feel her warmth.” You trailed off, feeling the little life inside you grow restless as you worked yourself up. “But every time I close my eyes I see the moment we realized that she was gone, and I feel that panic all over again. I don’t want to take my eyes off of her for even a second, Thomas.”

His hand drifted from Georgie’s face to yours, brushing over your cheekbone and pushing stray hair out of your face. “You need to take care of yourself, love. Sleep, wash up, eat.”

“I ate this morning,” you countered, leaning into his touch as he tenderly brushed his thumb under your eyes. You could only imagine the dark circles that made their home there. “Where did you run off to earlier?”

He was quiet as he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it, taking a long drag before saying, “Finished our business with Tatiana. She wanted me to tell you that if you’re ever in Vienna, you should look her up.” You could feel his haunting gaze on you, could feel his mild confusion and intrigue. “Do I even want to know what that’s about?”

You laughed softly, thinking back on your interactions with the Russian woman. “I think we...we might’ve become friends?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” 

“I’m telling you,” you said more confidently, though a slight hint of uncertainty still seeped into your tone. “She was strangely forthcoming about everything. It was refreshing.”

Thomas said nothing more on the subject. Rather, he scooped Georgie into his arms, trying his best not to wake her, and interrupted your protests before you could even voice them. “Go wash up and change, love. The others’ll be here soon, and there are things we should discuss before then.” You eyed him apprehensively, not wanting to leave Georgie, so he assured, “Go, Nora. I’ll stay with her.”

You hesitantly did as he asked, bathing quickly and changing from your nightgown and robe into appropriate clothing for a family meeting. You could feel the rising sense of panic the longer you were away from your daughter - a consequence of the events of the last forty-eight hours - and it only abated when you found Thomas sat at his desk, speaking softly to a recently woken Georgie as she haphazardly flipped through the pages of a book from Thomas’s shelf.

It was a heartbreakingly domestic scene, one that was deceiving if a person wasn’t aware of Thomas’s true nature, of the lengths you’d go to in order to protect your family, of the danger that your family potentially faced day in and day out. 

But you knew. You weren’t deceived.

Thomas noticed your presence quickly and smiled up at you before whispering something to Georgie. Your little girl perked up and stared at you with her big, haunting eyes, shrieking, “Mummy!”

Thomas nodded his head towards a chair that had been moved next to his. “Sit. There are things we need to discuss.”

You took a seat, reaching out to pull Georgie into your arms. She had resisted only slightly, not wanting to move from her father’s lap, but eventually she settled against you, placing her tiny hands on your stomach and muttering nonsense to the baby. You smiled down at her briefly before turning your gaze to Thomas, his haunting eyes observing the scene in front of him as a soft smile stretched across his lips.

“What is this about, Thomas?” You could sense his unease, could sense his growing distress despite not outwardly displaying it. Knowing him intimately for six years meant seeing through him, no matter how thick he built the walls around himself.

“We need to discuss Edith, Nora.” 

You felt your heart sink at the mention of the now dead nanny, and you sucked in a deep breath. “What about Edith?”

You sat in silence, body stiff and baby growing restless within you as Thomas told you about what Moss had informed him of that morning, told you about the information that had been passed along to the police when Edith failed to meet her contact in Birmingham that morning, told you about the warrant for your arrest. He took your trembling hand in his, holding it tightly in an attempt to calm you as he reassured, “I’m not letting them arrest you, Nora. I’ve made a deal.”

“A deal, Thomas?” you asked, brows furrowed and heart racing. “What kind of deal? What did you do, Thomas?” Was this deal part of the contingency plan that Tatiana had mentioned to you only a few nights ago.

Thomas was interrupted by the sounds of Mary escorting the new arrivals into the office, and he stood to greet John and Arthur as Esme approached you with the new baby. You tried to distract yourself by cooing over the baby and talking to Esme about the plans for Georgie’s upcoming birthday, but your mind kept going back to the deal that Thomas had made, your gaze falling on him intermittently as you waited for Michael, Polly, and the others to arrive.

You knew Thomas, knew how protective he was when it came to his family, knew that he would do anything to keep you and the little life inside of you out of harm's way. You felt worry eating at you the longer you were kept in the dark regarding the deal he’d made.

It didn’t take long for you to learn - along with everyone else - the specifics of the deal Thomas had made to keep you out of jail. Arthur’s goodbyes had been interrupted by Thomas’s revelation, and before long Linda had turned on you, spewing venomous words at you as she blamed you and Thomas for the impending arrest of her husband and the others. 

You stood dumbfounded as Thomas tried to persuade them to cooperate, to allow the police to arrest them without issue, holding Georgie tightly to your chest as the commotion caused her to wail in distress. You took deep breaths, feeling guilt settle deep within you as you watched police swarm the house, cuffing the others and escorting them to the waiting trucks.

Thomas stood and watched wordlessly, hands in his pockets and back stiff as the trucks rattled down the drive and away from the house. He finally turned to face you after the trucks were out of sight and he had closed the door, blocking the cold winter air from permeating the house. He looked exhausted, distressed. He brushed a hand over his face before his haunting gaze bore into yours from across the room. 

“What the hell was that, Thomas?” you asked, your irritation at the events of the past hour rising. “Is that the fucking deal you made? Me for them?” 

“I didn’t see any other way,” he tried to reason as he approached.

You backed away from him when he reached out to you, gently bouncing Georgie and trying to soothe her. “How could you do that to your brothers? To Polly?” you asked incredulously, voice rising in anger. “How could you fucking do that to Michael after everything he did to help us, after he brought Georgie home to us? Tell me fucking how, Thomas, because I’m having trouble understanding what went through your mind when you made that goddamn deal.”

“I did it for you!” he roared, anger flashing in his haunting eyes. “You’re  _ my wife _ , Nora. I will choose you over them every fuckin’ time.” He took your face between his hands, his touch tougher than you were used to. “Every fuckin’ time, love.”

You stepped away from his touch, shushing Georgie as she grew distressed once again from her parents’ raised voices. In any other circumstance, the sentiment behind his actions may have been romantic, but now, at the expense of your family, it was simply disappointing. “They’re our family, Thomas! And you just sacrificed them like lambs to a fucking slaughter!”

“So what? I was s’pose to let my pregnant wife be arrested? Is that what I was s’pose to fuckin’ do, Nora?” You backed away further, and when he noticed your retreat he rubbed a hand across his face, exasperated. “What the fuck was I supposed to do, Nora? I did what was best for our family.”

“If that were the case, members of our family wouldn’t be going to prison because of the deal you made.” You had your back pressed to the wall, a hand held against Georgie’s head as she hid her face in your shoulder. Thomas’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell, his anger radiating off of him in waves. “Fix this, Thomas. I don’t care what you need to do, just fucking fix it.”

“Do you think I don’t already have a plan to fix this?” he asked incredulously, clearly angry that you hadn’t assumed he was already two steps ahead of everyone else. “Do you think I would let them be arrested if I didn't already have a plan?”

You brushed past him, gathering your purse and your coat from the rack and gently tugging Georgie’s arms into her own coat. “I don’t fucking care, Thomas. It never should have come to this in the first place.” You turned to him and took a deep breath. “You’re an incredibly smart man, Thomas. I’m sure if you had put your mind to it, you would have found a way to keep me out of prison without sending others there in my place.”

You set Georgie down on the ground as you shrugged your coat on, and the little girl latched onto you, wrapping her arms around your leg as she stared at her father with her big, haunting eyes. Once the buttons of your coat were secured, you picked Georgie up once again, held her tightly to your chest, and snatched the keys to your car from the side table. 

“Where are you going, Nora?” he asked, sounding exasperated as his brows furrowed in confusion. “Are you just going to run away because you don’t like how I handled things?”

“I am not running away, Thomas,” you bit out. “I’m going to make sure your sister and Esme are okay. There was no reason for them to be dragged into this, and yet they were hauled out of our house like common criminals. Esme just had a baby, for fuck’s sake!” Your irritation grew as he stared at you, annoyance flashing in his haunting eyes. “And what of Finn and Isaiah? You allowed your baby brother to be treated like a criminal as well, Thomas. And did you even consider how they’ll treat a black boy? He may not have a warrant out for his arrest, but they'll certainly treat him like he does. If you won’t look out for the others in this family, then I fucking will.” 

Silence settled between the two of you, the air electrified with tension. You finally sighed and shook your head, tearing your gaze from Thomas’s. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. I may stay in Birmingham tonight to help Esme with the children. Maybe you should use this time to figure out how you’re going to fix this, Thomas.”

You turned on your heel and stormed from the house, ignoring Thomas as he called your name and demanded you come back inside, ignoring the way that Georgie babbled on and on about her daddy as you left, ignoring the way that guilt settled deep within the pit of your stomach as the sense that you were responsible for this entire mess grew and grew and grew.

You could only hope that Thomas would have a solution for all of this when you returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many interludes to follow before we get into season 4 events


	31. interlude viii. like nothing's wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Esme won’t speak to me, Ada is leaving for America next week, Polly’s in fucking prison,” you croaked, sucking in another shaky breath. You pulled away from his hold on you, your gaze averted and your voice low as you told him, “It’s my fault. I pulled the trigger, Thomas. Polly told me I shouldn’t have pulled the trigger. It’s all my fault.”

You returned home that day less than three hours after you had stormed out, leaving Tommy behind to figure out how the hell everything had gone to shit in the matter of minutes. 

He’d only done what needed to be done to keep you safe, to keep you out of prison. He’d only done what he needed to do to keep his family together, to keep you from giving birth alone in a cold cell. 

So how the fuck was he the one at fault for all of this?

Tommy knew you intimately though, knew your thought process and knew that you let your heart make your decisions, not your head. It was one of the things that had endeared you to him in the first place. You were incredibly clever, and yet your heart always won out over your head and he could only assume that it was your heart that had you feeling responsible for what had happened, made you feel like ensuring everyone was okay - despite things being very obviously  _ not okay _ \- was your responsibility, your penance for your actions that led to the arrests. 

You’d stormed through the front door, hanging your purse and coat on the rack before stripping Georgie of her coat and strutting through the foyer with your daughter on your hip, directly past him without saying a word. And yet, in the single look you gave him as you passed, he could read you like an open book.

He reached out, his fingers curling around your dainty wrist and stopping you in your tracks. “Nora, talk to me,” he urged, knowing that if you didn’t yell at him, didn’t scream at him until your voice was hoarse now, it was only going to be bottled up until the pressure became too much in the coming months. That was the absolute last thing he wanted as the end of your pregnancy swiftly approached.

You let out a shaky breath before turning to face him, and it was then that he noticed the redness of your eyes and barely dried tear tracks that stained your face. “I really don’t want to do this right now, Thomas,” you breathed, your lower lips trembling as tears began to fill your eyes again. “Please, just let me…” You trailed off, squeezing your eyes shut, a single tear escaping and streaking down your cheek. Tommy reached out to wipe it away, but you leaned out of his reach. “Please, Thomas. I can’t do this now.”

He pulled you gently into his arms, wrapping one arm around your lower back while the other curled around your head, his hand tangling itself in your dark hair as he held you to him. “Tell me what’s wrong, love. I can’t help you feel better if you don’t tell me.”

You took another shaky breath before you began to sob, hiding your face in his shoulder as you cried. Georgie, his sweet little girl with his eyes and your smile, pressed a tiny hand to your cheek and said, “Mummy, no cry.”

A half-laugh, half-sob escaped you, and you pressed a soft kiss to Georgie’s temple just as Tommy pressed two fingers beneath your chin to lift your gaze to meet his. “Tell me, love. What’s wrong?”

Your tongue darted out of your mouth, swiping it over your lower lip before you sucked the pink flesh between your teeth. “Esme wants absolutely nothing to do with us, with me,” you finally admitted, swiping angrily at your tears. “I tried to tell her that you had a plan, tried to tell her that you wouldn’t let John be arrested if you didn’t have a plan, but she wouldn’t listen. Told me that you and I deserved each other, told me that people that turn their backs on family deserve to be the only family they have before she turned her back on me and refused to even look at me. She even had Finn escort me and Georgie out.”

Tommy’s anger flared at your words, but he remained silent, rubbing soothing circles across your back as you cried and sniffled against his shoulder. Eventually, he could feel the wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt, and still, he remained silent. 

“Esme won’t speak to me, Ada is leaving for America next week, Polly’s in fucking prison,” you croaked, sucking in another shaky breath. You pulled away from his hold on you, your gaze averted and your voice low as you told him, “It’s my fault. I pulled the trigger, Thomas. Polly told me I shouldn’t have pulled the trigger. It’s all my fault.”

He reached out for you again, wanting to console you, wanting to chase away the guilt that he knew would eat at you until it was too much to handle, but you stepped back, just like you had that morning when he tried to explain why did what he did. “Nora,” he tried, his voice low and pleading. 

You shook your head. “No, Thomas. I just need...I want some space to think. I didn’t want to rely on you to pull the trigger that night, and now I don’t want to rely on you to clean up my messes.” 

He surged forward, taking your face between his hands, his thumbs brushing away stray tears on your cheeks. “You’re my wife, Nora. Your messes are my messes. Always.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pressed his lips to yours, his heart sinking when you didn’t reciprocate. “I’m going to fix this. I promise.”

You smiled sadly at him, backing away again so that his hands fell from your face. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep, Thomas.” The words - words that you’d said so many times before in the six years he’s known you, in the six years he’s loved you - were like a slap to the face. “You may be able to get them out of prison, but things have changed. They won’t forgive us for this.” You hung your head, eyes fixated on the open space between you. “If I were them, I wouldn’t forgive us either.”

You left him standing alone in the foyer that night, climbing the stairs as you cried silently, and it was well after midnight before he worked up the courage to join you. Tommy found you and Georgie asleep in your room, a look of serenity on your face as you held onto one of Georgie’s much smaller hands. He quickly joined you in bed, careful not to disturb either of you, especially since he knew you hadn’t slept the night prior. 

He had hoped that a decent night’s sleep would be enough to ease the guilt you felt, but it became clear at breakfast, as your food went untouched and your gaze remained fixed on the windows and the rain beyond them that nothing had changed overnight. If anything, the night had only allowed your guilt to burrow itself deeper within you. 

Tommy tried over the coming days to lure you from your trance, to help ease your guilt, to take some of the blame that you had settled on your shoulders, but you brushed him off every time, and before long a full week had passed and Georgie’s second birthday had arrived. 

The morning of Georgie’s birthday, you had almost seemed back to normal and Tommy felt a weight lift off of his shoulders, but it soon became clear that you’d gotten frighteningly good at pretending that you were okay.

You smiled and laughed as you sang happy birthday horribly off-key and helped Georgie blow out the candles on her cake. You smiled and pressed kisses to Georgie’s chubby cheeks as she played with the toys that she had received as birthday gifts from you and Tommy. You had even pressed a sweet kiss to his lips and smiled at him as Georgie giggled excitedly on the floor as she played with one of her new dolls. 

But he knew you too well after six years. He knew that each smile hid the sadness that had settled deep within your chest at the thought of Georgie’s many cousins not being present to celebrate. He knew that each laugh only covered the sobs that threatened to break through the longer you thought about how lonely you felt without Ada and Esme and Pol. He knew that the kiss was your best attempt at hiding the fact that you absolutely weren’t okay.

Mary and the other staff had been convinced by your act, but not Tommy. 

And yet, when he tried to talk to you about it, you shut him out again and again and again, and before long, Christmas was approaching. While you busied yourself with shopping for presents for Georgie and your many nieces and nephews, he busied himself with trying to get his family out of prison, and before long, you and Tommy would go days without speaking to one another. 

He almost slipped up the week before Christmas, nearly broke one of his promises to you, nearly fucked a whore to release of the pent up frustration that had been gradually building each time you refused to speak more than a few words to him, each time you refused to even acknowledge him in the office aside from conversations related strictly to business needs, each time you refused to just scream at him and let out all of your anger at him and to place some of the guilt on his shoulders if only to make you feel better. 

He almost slipped up, almost. 

He’d been in the room with the whore, a young girl - hardly more than twenty - with large, grey eyes that reminded him of yours, and it was after looking into those eyes as the whore undressed herself that he put an end to it. Looking into those eyes, so like yours, he remembered the promises that he’d made to you, remembered the way that you still struggled to trust him, remember how he’d found you drunk and crying on the floor of the kitchen during the first few months of your marriage, remembered that you were at home struggling to simply exist under the weight of your guilt and social isolation from the people - outside of him and Georgie - that you were closest too. 

He paid the woman for wasting her time and went home to you and Georgie.

He admitted what he’d nearly done after he watched your expression tighten in anger when he leaned in to press a greeting kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t hard for him to deduce that the scent of the cigarettes he had smoked on the way home didn’t cover up the scent of cheap perfume, and he swore to you over and over that he hadn’t gone through with it, that he had left before he’d even taken his coat off. 

You went to bed that night without a single word to him.

Two days prior to Christmas, he got the call that his plan had worked, that Arthur, John, Michael and Pol had been acquitted of all charges just before the noose claimed their lives. He shared the news with you, and though the news had brought visible relief to you, he knew that the guilt you felt had settled firmly on your shoulders and it would take more than their acquittal to be released from that guilt.

You phoned Esme, eager to speak with her regarding the good news, and Thomas watched as your face fell the longer the call went unanswered. He watched as a brief smile tugged at your lips when someone finally did answer, only for it to disappear as soon as you spoke and were abruptly hung up on. He watched as you excused yourself from his company, passing him as your eyes filled with unshed tears and you tugged your trembling lower lip between your teeth. He watched as you disappeared up the stairs, a single sob escaping from you before he heard the sound of your bedroom door slamming shut.

You hid yourself away for the remainder of the day, either with Georgie in her nursery or beneath the blankets of your bed. He brushed your tears away when he joined you in bed that night, pulling you into his arms as you continued to cry until you finally fell asleep, your tears drying on your rosy cheeks.

Christmas morning was the first time in weeks that you had actually looked genuinely happy since the arrests. You smiled at him and kissed him softly when he gifted you the first edition books you had been eyeing at the bookstore for months. You had even bit back an amused smile when he opened one of the gifts from you, a pair of spectacles to help with his vision issues after his head injury. 

“Why am I not surprised that you look just as handsome with glasses,” you had commented, a teasing look in your expressive eyes as he tried them on. “Alfie helped me find someone to make those for you.”

His smile dropped slightly at the mention of the man that had made his interest in you clear from the very beginning, but he was quick to hide his displeasure, pulling you into a tender kiss. His lips lingered on yours, enjoying the intimacy that had been missing from your relationship for the past month, until Georgie shrieked in delight from the floor, her latest toy flying across the room as she giggled.

And then, as soon as it had begun, the moment was broken as you joined your daughter on the floor, gently scolding her for throwing her toys. Instead of joining Tommy on the sofa again, you remained on the floor, playing with Georgie and rubbing circles over your ever growing stomach, the baby no doubt restless again. 

Morning quickly turned to afternoon, and as you and Tommy and Georgie at the meal that the chef had prepared for Christmas, Tommy knew by the way that you glanced around the large, empty room that your mind had wandered to the Christmas plans you had made months prior with Pol and Esme and the others. You pushed the food on your plate around with your fork, though you hardly ate, instead watching with a small smile as Georgie made a mess with the cranberries she was so fond of. 

Afternoon quickly turned to night, and once Tommy had helped you put Georgie to bed for the night, you finally -  _ fucking finally _ , as if it were a Christmas miracle - reached your breaking point, screaming at him in the middle of the drawing room as tears streamed down your face.

“They all fucking hate me, Thomas!” you had screamed at him, swiping furiously at the tears on your cheeks. “They hate me because I’m the reason their families were torn apart, even if it was only temporary!”

He tried to shush you, tried to pull you into his arms, tried to comfort you, even though this was what he had been waiting for for over a month. 

“Stop fucking touching me!” You caught him off guard as you slapped his hands away from you, chest heaving in anger and your eyes alight with a fire he hadn’t seen in years. Not since you gave him the ring that you now wore on your fourth finger. The reminder of that day scared him, and suddenly he wasn’t sure what to expect from you. What had your guilt done to you in the month he let you just wallow in it without forcing you to sit down and talk to him about it?

“They fucking hate me, Thomas,” you repeated, wrapping your arms around yourself. “John went to prison a day after his daughter was born. Arthur went to prison not knowing if he’d be there for the birth of his child.” You took in a shaky breath, and Tommy watched as you visibly tried to stop yourself from crumbling in front of his eyes. “Michael went to prison after killing a man, Thomas.” Your voice was low, filled with sadness. “I know what it feels like to have that on your conscience. I saw it in his eyes that night. Michael was not okay, Thomas. And you got him sent to prison for committing a murder under your orders. He went to prison because you made a fucking deal to protect me from going to prison for murdering Georgie’s fucking nanny. I at least had you to talk to, to get me through the worst of nights after I killed Changretta. Michael had no one in there, and I don’t even know if he’ll speak to me now. He certainly won’t speak to Pol about what he did, not after the way she reacted. He’s going to drown in that guilt, Thomas.”

“I’ll speak to Michael after the holiday,” he offered, unsure of what else to say. You’d been oddly protective of Michael during this whole ordeal, and while a part of him understood that you would always be grateful to him for his part in getting Georgie back, that you would always feel a strange kinship with him over your shared sense of guilt in what you’d done in the name of protecting the family, he was jealous of how quick you were to always defend him to Tommy. 

After all, Tommy was nearly thirty-four years old while you were only twenty-five. You were far closer in age to Michael, and Tommy knew that his cousin had fancied you when he was first introduced to the family. It was probably due to the lack of affection and intimacy between you and Tommy since this entire ordeal began, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more under the surface of familial affection between you and Michael.

He snapped out of his paranoia when you spoke again, his eyes training on the hand that you gently laid across your rounded stomach. “They all hate me because while they suffered, while their families suffered while they were in prison, I was here living my life as if nothing had happened, as if I shouldn’t have been in prison right along with them for murdering Edith.”

“It wasn’t because you murdered Edith,” he said abruptly, his eyes flickering up to watch your expressive eyes fill with confusion and anger and sadness all at once. 

“What?” you breathed, the confusion he saw in your eyes making itself known in your voice as well. You blinked and repeated yourself, louder this time, “What?”

“The Odd Fellows learned about the murder of Changretta through information that Edith passed along to them,” Thomas admitted. “As far as I know, no one knows about Edith’s murder. We found a ticket for passage to America in her belongings. Most people likely assume that she’s already on her way across the Atlantic.”

“People know about Changretta?” Tommy could feel your rising sense of panic at the reminder of the Italian man and your role in his death, could feel your rising sense of dread as you took a deep breath, hand rubbing soothing circles over your stomach as you began to pace. “What did Moss say when you made the deal?”

“He’s going to try to bury the information that they received, try to make sure no one else knows.” You nodded in acknowledgement, taking deep breath after deep breath as you closed your eyes and continued your pacing in front of the fire. Tommy stepped into your path, gripping your arms gently in his hands as your eyes flew open, meeting his gaze. “Do you trust me, Nora?”

“Is that a trick question?” you asked sarcastically, and he had to fight back a smile at the slight glimpse of who you were without all of the guilt weighing you down. “Yes, Thomas. I trust you.”

“Then know that I’ll do everything I possibly can to make sure nothing happens to you. Moss’ll bury the information, and it’ll be the end of it.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead, one of his hands unlatching from his grip on your arm to fold over your hand on your stomach. “I won’t let anything happen to you, love. And you may not like it, but if I ever have to choose between you and the others again in the future, I’m going to choose you every fuckin’ time. You’re my wife, Nora. The mother of my children. You are the most important fuckin’ person in my life. Do you understand that?”

You blinked and averted your gaze, but you nodded nonetheless. “I just…” You trailed off, lifting your expressive gaze to meet Tommy’s eyes as more tears started to trail down your cheeks. “I feel so alone, Thomas. Ada’s in America, Esme won’t talk to me, Pol just got out of prison because of a deal you made to protect me. Even Lizzie won't say more than three words to me in the office.” You wiped your nose on your sleeve, something that reminded Tommy of Georgie, and he did his best to keep his expression neutral, to not smile at the similarities between you and his little girl. “I’m so alone, Thomas. I can’t even be made at them for hating me, but I feel like they’ve abandoned me.”

“C’mere,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. His heart broke, listening to you cry as your words replayed themselves over and over and over again in his head. “You can blame me,” he muttered into your hair as you cried. “Blame me, Nora. I made the deal, not you. I made the deal to protect you. Blame me so you can stop blaming yourself.”

You pulled away from him, your expressive eyes full of anger and self-loathing. “That’s the problem, Thomas. I do blame you,” you admitted, “but to blame you I had to blame myself first.”

You turned on your heel and stalked away from him, leaving Tommy to wonder how the hell he’d finally managed to get you to talk about the guilt that had been eating away at you, how he somehow only went one step forward before being firmly pushed two steps back.


	32. interlude ix. a moment of peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you spill something, love?” he asked, assisting you up from the floor once you’d finished with the clean up. “Do you need me to run and get you something else to drink?”
> 
> You shook your head, hand laying gently across your stomach as a pleased smile stretched across your lips. “No, my water broke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *unedited*

The weeks that followed Christmas, Tommy tried his best to coax you out of your shell, tried to help you as best as he could, but you’d collapsed in on yourself - you ate only after Tommy threatened to involve a physician to induce labor early if you wouldn’t eat for the baby; you slept hours later than you typically had, coming into the office shortly before noon and hardly speaking to anyone while you were there; your time with Georgie had even become less and less interactive as the weeks wore on, as you’d simply sit in the rocking chair and keep a close eye on her rather than sit on the floor and play with her.

And then, as late January approached and you were expected to give birth any day, Michael showed up at Arrow House. 

You had been in the drawing room with Georgie, a book in your hands - though Tommy couldn’t say if you were actually reading or just holding it in your hands out of habit - as you watched your daughter play on the floor with one of the many toys she’d gotten for Christmas. Not wanting to disturb you and set back the miniscule progress you’d made in the past month, Tommy quietly ushered Michael to his office.

He sat with Michael for well over an hour, discussing what had happened - specifically why it had happened - and how Michael was feeling about the entire situation. Tommy recalled what you had said the night of Christmas, that Michael was struggling just as you had, and he could tell just from looking at him that it was still the case. 

His cousin was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and the skin around his nails had been anxiously picked at until it bled. He also had a light dusting of white powder on the collar of his suit. Cocaine, more than likely. 

And in the middle of discussing Michael’s desire to return to work - against Pol’s wishes, he’d said - you entered the room, rubbing sleepily at your eyes despite the early hour of the evening. 

“Thomas, Mary’s taken Georgie to bed. I think that I’m going to…” you trailed off when your eyes landed on Michael sitting opposite him at the desk, and he could see the battling emotions within your expressive eyes as they scanned over the younger man. “Michael?” you croaked, tears springing from your eyes. 

You turned on your heel, fleeing from the room. 

When Michael stood to go after you, Thomas stopped him with a single gesture. “Shouldn't you make sure she’s okay?” he asked, brows furrowed in confusion at Tommy’s inaction. 

“She just needs a moment,” he responded, lighting the cigarette that he held between his lips, needing the tobacco and nicotine to relieve the immense stress that your condition had put him under. “She’s not well, Michael. Mentally.”

He spent some time describing what you’d gone through in the past two months - the depression, the social isolation, the guilt. By the time he had finished, Michael looked distraught.

“No one will speak to her?”

Tommy didn’t get the chance to respond. You’d appeared in the doorway of the office again, your eyes red and swollen but free of new tears, with a tea tray in your hands and balanced on your rounded stomach. You walked into the office and set the tray on the desk, a look of determination in your eyes that Tommy hadn’t seen in months. You spared him a quick look before turning your expressive eyes on Michael.

“Talk to me, Michael. I don’t care if you want to scream at me, to blame me for everything that went to shit two months ago. I don’t care anymore. Please just don’t leave. Please talk to me.” Your voice broke slightly as you pleaded with him, and Tommy reached across the desk to brush his fingers along the soft skin of your wrist. “Please, Michael. Please don’t turn your back on me, too.”

Tommy was proud of you. You kept your chin raised and your eyes free of tears, your jaw set in determination. It was more progress in a single evening than there’d been in the past two months. 

Michael shook his head, his gaze cast downwards toward his clasped hands in his lap. He swallowed thickly before lifting his gaze to you, saying, “I’ll never turn my back on you, Nora.” He stood and pulled you into a hug, holding you the way you hadn’t let Tommy hold you as you cried - happy tears, for once - and Tommy had to force down the rising sense of jealousy as he watched the scene in front of him. 

Once you’d pulled away from Michael and dried your tears on the sleeve of your robe, you poured two cups of tea - one for you and one for Michael - and Tommy excused himself from the room after ensuring you were okay. The smile you’d given him in response made him feel better than he had in months, and he thought maybe you’d be okay after all.

In an odd role reversal, Tommy took up your usual spot in the drawing room, reading over documents for work while you were closed in his office, sipping tea and talking with Michael until the early hours of the morning. He glanced at the clock often, watching the minutes tick by until it turned into an hour, two hours, and finally four hours before you emerged from the office, tear tracks visible across your cheeks but a wide smile on your face nonetheless. 

Michael too looked slightly disheveled, eyes red and his lashes wet from tears, but you both looked considerably better than when the night began. 

You hugged him one final time before he turned to Tommy, stating his intention to be at the office the following morning to continue the work that you had taken over in Michael’s absence. 

And then he was gone, his vehicle rambling down the drive as you threw yourself into Tommy’s arms. “I’m not alone anymore, Thomas,” you whispered, your excitement at the thought of having someone besides him to speak to, someone who you thought would never want to speak to you again, someone you thought you’d lost forever when Tommy made that deal.

There was a visible change in you after that day. You started to eat without any urging from others, you happily played with Georgie and started to read to her again, and you started to sleep more regularly, waking up with Tommy in the morning and joining him on his drive into the office. 

While Tommy was more than happy to see you becoming more like yourself again, he worried. Your child was due any day, and yet you were more lively than you had been in months. He tried not to fret over you, he really did, but after he found you walking the halls at four in the morning with nothing but your thin nightgown on to protect you from the early February chill that had crept within the walls of the house, he called the physician.

“I was trying to induce labor, Thomas,” you had argued when he ushered your back to bed and promised the physician would arrive in a few hours. “The woman at the bookstore said that walking could do that, so I wanted to try it.”

“At four in the morning?”

“I was too hot. I couldn’t sleep,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest as you gave him a displeased look. “I’m the size of a fucking cow, Thomas. She should have been here by now. The doctors said she’d be here by late January. It’s now February, and we have no baby to show for it.”

“Is it uncommon for women to give birth later than expected?” Tommy had no fucking clue when it came to pregnancy and birthing, nor did he really care to learn anything beyond what he knew already thanks to Georgie’s birth two years prior. 

“How should I know?” you asked as if he had asked a question that no one knew the answer to. “Georgie was born around the time that the doctors told me she would be, so I assumed that this little one would do the same.” You rubbed your hand in circles over your large bump. “If this is anything to go by, I think we’ll have our hands full with her.”

He laughed, amused by your assumption that the delayed birth was indicative of your unborn child’s personality. “Get some rest, love,” he encouraged. “Maybe the physicians will have some ideas for you when he gets here this morning.”

The physician did have an idea, though it wasn’t one that you were pleased with. You had phone Tommy at the office, and before he even had a chance to greet you and ask how the appointment had gone, you were shouting nonsense at him about bed rest and waiting for labor to begin naturally. 

When got home that evening, he learned more about the situation. Given the difficulties that you’d had at the beginning of your pregnancy, the physician hadn’t advised doing anything to induce labor yourself - something that you had a few choice words about - and so you had inadvertently found yourself placed on bed rest until you gave birth. 

You complied for two weeks before your restlessness got the better of you and you arrived at the office a couple hours after Thomas. You wordlessly strolled past Lizzie into his office, holding out your hand for the latest donor statements from the Shelby Charity Foundation. It had led to an argument - one that you easily won - before he conceded and gave you the requested documents. 

You silently went about your work for the day, leaving shortly before Thomas to return home.

The day after that, you joined Thomas on his drive to work and again silently went about your work in the office. He had to leave the office shortly before noon to handle some business at one of the factories, but he’d left you in the company of Michael and Lizzie, furtively asking Lizzie to keep an eye on you while he was gone. 

When he returned, the office was silent, seemingly unoccupied, so he was rightfully startled when he found you sitting on the ground, mopping up a puddle of liquid with a rag. 

“Did you spill something, love?” he asked, assisting you up from the floor once you’d finished with the clean up. “Do you need me to run and get you something else to drink?”

You shook your head, hand laying gently across your stomach as a pleased smile stretched across your lips. “No, my water broke.”

He blinked, confused at the calm manner you had stated that. Did he hear you correctly? “What did you say?”

“I said my water broke, Thomas,” you repeated, waddling back towards your desk to continue your work. “We have time though. My contractions are very, very far apart. It’s nothing like it had been with Georgie.”

“Nora, we should get you home and call the midwife,” he tried to persuade, but you waved him off, eyes never lifting from your work. He glanced around the office, feeling a rising sense of anticipation and panic all at once. “Where the hell are Lizzie and Michael? I asked Lizzie to keep an eye on you while I was gone.”

You looked at him then, your expressive eyes filled with annoyance as you raised a brow. “I am not a child that needs to be watched, Thomas. Lizzie went out to get us some lunch, and Michael went to a meeting with an investor. I told them I’d be fine by myself.”

“I’d really prefer it if you went home, Nora. You’re in labor, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, I am, but I would prefer it if…” You trailed off, gritting your teeth as a pained expression crossed your face and your fingers clenched against your stomach. He raised a brow at you expectantly, and you rolled your eyes and sighed once the contraction had passed. “Fine, how about we make a deal then. You’re used to making those aren’t you?”

The snark in your tone hadn’t been appreciated, but Tommy couldn’t pretend like he wasn’t pleased at the progress you’d made towards returning back to your usual self in the past weeks. “Fine,” he conceded. “A deal then.”

You smiled triumphantly at him, and seeing your smile made him think of Georgie. Would this baby have your smile as well?

“If you let me finish my preparation for cataloguing donations, I’ll go home as soon as it’s done,” you offered.

“How long will that take?”

You shrugged. “No more than a couple hours. There’s quite a few people that like using their immense wealth to get on Thomas Shelby’s good side.” As an afterthought, you added, "And I'm fairly persuasive when it comes to the people that are on the fence about donating to a charity with the Shelby name on it." 

Tommy agreed after a little more persuasion from you - he would have preferred if you had just gone home as soon as your water broke, but he knew how much you hated sitting around doing nothing, how much you hated feeling useless. At least at the office, you wouldn’t feel useless if you kept busy.

And as promised, as soon as you’d completed your work, you and Tommy returned home, notifying Lizzie and Michael that neither of you would be in the office tomorrow - adding that you likely wouldn’t be in the office for a couple months at least - and that they’d be able to reach him at home if they needed him. 

He learned very quickly that you hadn’t been lying when you told him that it would be awhile before the baby was born after your water broke. The midwife had arrived no more than an hour after Tommy had phoned her, and she was quick to assure that it was likely to be a very long labor.

(Tommy hadn’t missed the expression on your face when the midwife informed you of that, an expression that very obviously told him that you had been right and he should have listened to you). 

To pass the time, you sat in bed with Georgie, reading to her from the many books that she had made Tommy carry from her nursery to your room. Tommy sat with you, enjoying the peace of the moment with his two girls before two became three. Each time you were hit with a contraction, your words faltering in your mouth, Tommy took over reading to Georgie until you had recovered and seamlessly continued reading on the next page. 

It wasn’t until the following afternoon that the midwife finally told you it was time to start pushing, and while Mary had taken Georgie from the room, Tommy stayed by your side, helping you strip before crawling behind you and letting you brace your back against his chest as you began to push when the midwife ordered you to.

He felt a rising sense of panic as the hours started to blur into one another, and soon you were in the thirtieth hour of your labor, the sun beginning to set beyond the windows. “Told you we would have our hands full with this one,” you joked weakly after pushing again for what seemed like the hundredth time. “She fought so hard to stay within me in the beginning, and now she’s fighting just as hard to stay within me at the end.”

He pressed a kiss to your clammy forehead as you turned away from him, speaking to your stomach softly. “Okay, little one. It’s time to come out and meet Mommy and Daddy now.”

He laughed. “I don’t think that’s how it works, love.”

You didn’t get the chance to retort as another contraction hit and the midwife was ordering for you to push. Your chest was heaving with the exertion, and Tommy's hands were beginning to ache with the pressure of your grip each time you pushed.

Finally, after another exhausting hour, the room was filled with the cries of the baby, and he could feel the relief coursing through your body as you relaxed against him. You laughed, though Tommy wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or from actual humor that you hadn’t shared with him.

He stared down at you as the midwife placed the squirming, screaming baby in your arms, in just as much awe as he had been two years ago when Georgie had been placed in your arms. Unlike Georgie, his newest daughter didn’t quiet as soon as she was in her mother’s arms, she didn’t have a head of thick, dark hair, and she blinked up at you and Tommy as soon as her cries quieted once she’d latched onto your breast.

“She has your eyes,” he noted, love blooming in his chest for the newest member of his family. 

You rested your head against his shoulder, looking up at him. “They may change yet.”

“No.” He shook his head, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of her pink cheeks as she suckled. “I hope her eyes stay that way.”

“What are we going to call her?” you asked, a tinge of sadness in your voice. “I wanted to name her after Pol, but now that just seems like an empty gesture.”

Tommy agreed with you. “We could name her after your mother,” he suggested instead.

“You want to give your daughter an Italian name?” you asked incredulously and shook your head. “Maybe that can be her middle name, or at least a variation of it.

Soon you were in a deep discussion about potential names for the newest addition to your little family. By the time the baby had settled against your chest, hunger sated and sleeping soundly, and your exhaustion was beginning to win out over your desire to stay awake and hold your daughter, Tommy had put forth a suggestion that made you smile happily.

“It makes sense,” you commented as your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Georgie is named after the man that was more a father to me than my actual father, and now Charlotte will be named after the man that was more a father to you than your actual father.”

“Charlie’ll be pleased,” Tommy said, unable to tear his eyes away from the sleeping baby. “And you’re fine with shortening your mother’s name?”

You smiled at him sleepily. “S’okay. She’d be pleased, too.” Your fingers brushed over the bare skin of Charlotte’s back, smiling wider as she stretched in your arms at the touch. “Charlotte Rose is a pretty name, hm? A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

He moved to sit beside you, taking Charlotte in his arms so you could lean against him, eyes shuttering in exhaustion. Soon, you were snoring softly beside him, and he smiled down at you before addressing the sleeping baby, “I think you wore your mum out, Charlotte.”

Tommy settled into the silence, enjoying the tranquility that filled the room, and he hoped that with the arrival of your newest daughter after so many setbacks, you both could finally put the past behind you and move on and be happy with your little family. 

He should have known better.


	33. interlude x. together with your problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your happy façade fell then, your eyes locking onto your hands as you twisted them nervously in your lap. “I don’t think I’m a very good mother, Thomas,” you admitted in a voice just barely louder than a whisper. 

He really should have known better than to think that things would go back to normal.

It took a few days after Charlotte’s birth for Tommy to notice that something was wrong with you.

At first, he thought it was just exhaustion catching up to you after the long labor, but eventually he recognized the cloud of melancholy that surrounded you, that had you smiling and laughing less, that had you watching your daughters as if you were afraid to touch them. 

But you were frighteningly good at pretending you were okay. 

You smiled and laughed with him as you prepared to send the birth announcements to family, even preparing a few to send to your mother’s family in America. You brought him lunch at the office, bringing the girls along for the impromptu visits and happily passing Charlotte to Lizzie to hold while Georgie crawled into Tommy’s lap and babbled about the animals she saw on the drive. You invited Michael around for dinner once a week and played the perfect host each time.

He called the physician when he woke to you gone from your spot beside him in bed and found you wandering the halls in the early hours of the morning, staring sadly at the portraits that lined the walls. 

He’d tried to talk to you, he really did, but when you brushed him off, simply stating that you couldn’t sleep, he felt he had no other choice. 

He really wished that you would have just talked to him. 

The physician was quick to diagnose you with mental distress following the birth of Charlotte, and before you could protest, you’d been confined to your room, kept from the children, and given a prescription of opium and orders to bathe in tepid water to keep the mental distress from overwhelming you. 

He really wished that you would have just talked to him.

Keeping Georgie and Charlotte away from you was perhaps the hardest thing he had to do, but it was even harder knowing that you hadn’t asked for them a single time while you were in your confinement. Instead, you’d been thoroughly drugged and kept occupied by your ghosts. 

He’d come to bed some nights to find you sat up in bed, muttering to yourself as if you were speaking to someone else. He knew that most nights the drugs made you see your brother, made you see Ben, made you hear his voice as if he was in the room with you. He knew that other nights you saw your uncle or your mother, sometimes even your father. He knew that on the worst nights you saw Edith and Changretta, and your screams would travel through the halls. 

The first night that happened, he heard your screams from his office. He ran through the house to get to you, pulling you into his arms tightly when he found you on your knees on the floor and whispering soothing words as you screamed and screamed and screamed. Mary had phoned the physician, and under his instructions, a tepid bath had been prepared and Tommy dropped you into the water fully clothed.

You surfaced, gasping for air and shivering as your wet clothes clung to your body. “Please, Thomas,” you had begged. “Please don’t make me take any more opium. I can’t take it anymore. Please, I can’t...They won’t leave me alone, Thomas. They won’t leave me alone.”

Watching you cry fully clothed in the tub was a low point, for both him and yourself, and he couldn’t help but appease you, allowing you a night of reprieve from the ghosts that haunted you while you were drugged. Instead, he stripped you of your soaked clothes and helped you dry before pulling a nightgown over your body and carrying you to bed, holding you against him as you tried and failed to sleep. 

After a couple weeks of confinement, Michael came to visit you, and for a moment, you were able to pretend that you were okay. You spoke of work, wanting to know how he was managing things in your absence and if preparations for the charity gala were coming along smoothly. Michael had glanced at Tommy, panic in his eyes, when you asked him if there was anything that you could take off of his plate.

“Nora, love,” Tommy began, a hand settling on your shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You need to get better first.”

The way you looked up at him, your expressive eyes so full of confusion, made his heart sink. “I’m fine, Thomas. I shouldn’t leave Michael to deal with all of my responsibilities.”

“Georgie and Charlotte are part of your responsibilities, too. You haven't even held Charlotte in weeks, Nora.” He tried to keep the anger and distress from his voice, but he failed miserably. Here you were, talking to Michael as if you’d be back in the office within the week, and yet you couldn’t even bring yourself to look at your daughters. “You need to get your head right, love.”

Your happy façade fell then, your eyes locking onto your hands as you twisted them nervously in your lap. “I don’t think I’m a very good mother, Thomas,” you admitted in a voice just barely louder than a whisper. 

He dragged a hand across his face, distraught at the admission. “Can you give us a moment, Michael?”

His cousin nodded his head before standing and turning to leave, but you caught Michael’s wrist in your hand. “Please don’t leave.”

Michael’s eyes softened as he stared at you, a sad smile on his face. After casting a glance towards Tommy, he nodded. “I’ll stay. Just talk with Tommy. Please, Nora. You need to talk to Tommy about this.”

When Michael had disappeared around the corner, Tommy took his vacated seat and reached out to grip your hands in his. “Nora. Look at me, love.” Your expressive eyes met his gaze, full of melancholy and self-loathing. He pressed one hand to your face, cupping your cheek. “You are a good mother, Eleanora.”

You shook your head, tears forming in your eyes. “I’m not, Thomas. Ben and Mama say so. I’m a bad mother, and I don’t...I don’t know how to be a good mother, Thomas. I feel like I’ve failed our daughters, like I’ve failed you.”

You averted your gaze again as tears started to trail down your cheeks, but his grip on your face lifted your eyes to him again. “You were a wonderful mother after Georgie was born, love. What makes you think you aren’t a good mother now?”

You sniffled, wiping your tears on your sleeve. “How am I supposed to keep our little family - me, you, Georgie, and Charlotte - together if I’m the reason that our family is broken in the first place. I’m the reason that John and Esme won’t speak to us, I’m the reason that Arthur and Linda didn’t invite us to their son’s baptism, I’m the reason that Pol fucking hates us.” Your eyes shone with tears and your lashes were wet from your tears as your gaze bore into him. “How can I be a good mother when I’ve already broken apart this family once before?”

He gripped your face between his palms, not missing the little sigh that escaped you at the comforting touch. “Nora, you’re the reason that Michael is here. You’re the reason that he doesn’t look like a walking fuckin’ corpse anymore. You’re the reason that he feels comfortable discussing what happened to him in the past. You’re the reason that he hasn’t been swallowed whole by his guilt.” Like you, he had wanted to add, but he thought better of it. “You’re a wonderful mother, love. You just need to realize that.”

You swallowed thickly, your body shaking as you choked back another sob and nodded. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Tommy pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You don’t need to apologize, love. Just get better. Get better for me, for Georgie, for Charlotte. We have a newborn that’s hardly been held by her mother in the weeks since she was born.”

You blinked at him, once, twice, three times, before sheepishly asking, “You’re not going to make me keep taking the opium, are you?”

“I won’t make you do anything, Nora. I just want you to get better. Can you do that without the drugs?”

You nodded softly. “It doesn't help at all. It only makes me see things that aren’t real, hear voices that I know can’t really be here. They tell me I’m a bad mother, that I’ve made bad choices, that everything that’s happened is my fault. It’s driving me fucking mad, Thomas.” You took a shaky breath. “I can’t keep it up. If anything, all it’s doing is making me feel worse.”

“No more drugs then,” Tommy reassured. “I’ll phone the physician in the morning and inform him.”

“No,” you objected quickly. “Please don’t involve him anymore. Please, Thomas. He’s only going to try something else, and I don’t...I just want to try to be normal, Thomas. I don’t want drugs, I don’t want cold bath water, I don’t want to be locked in our room. I just want to be normal. Please.”

“Okay,” he agreed, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “We’ll get through this together. You and me.”

You nodded and smiled at him, a true smile, one that actually reached your eyes. “Okay.” You fell silent for a moment, before speaking up again. “I think tomorrow I’d like...I want to see Georgie and Charlotte.”

Tommy hesitantly agreed, not wanting to get either of your hopes up for a successful visit with the girls, and after calling Michael back into the room and chatting with him for a long while, you excused yourself, leaving just Tommy and Michael to sit before fire in the drawing room.

“How is she really, Tommy?” Michael asked, his concern for you unconcealed. 

“Not well, Michael,” he answered, lighting his third cigarette since Michael arrived. “She wasn’t like this after Georgie. I don’t understand.”

“Could it have anything to do with the others still not speaking to her?” he guessed, lighting his own cigarette. 

Tommy shrugged. “Maybe, but after...when you started being there for her, she was better. I just don’t fuckin’ understand why she’s like this.”

“I can try to talk to the others,” he offered. “I’ll see them for dinner at John’s tomorrow and I can-”

“No.” Tommy shook his head, taking a long drag of his cigarette as his head dropped back in exhaustion. “You don’t need to do that. They’ll come around eventually.”

“Are you sure about that?” No, Tommy had wanted to say, but instead he remained silent, eyes locked onto the ceiling. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do. I don’t like seeing Nora this way.”

Michael went on his way shortly before midnight, repeating his offer before disappearing through the front door. Tommy climbed the stairs after locking the front door, exhaustion making his movements slow as he made his way to join you in bed. 

Panic settled within his chest when he saw you were nowhere to be found in the bedroom or in the bathroom, and his mind felt like it was spinning as he hurried down the hall to the nursery, trying to prepare himself for what he may find there. You wouldn’t harm the children, would you?

He let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when he found you seated in the rocking chair, cradling Charlotte in your arms as you whispered your apologies to the sleeping baby, your tears dripping from your chin and onto the pink blanket that she had been swaddled in. 

You looked up at him when you noticed him standing in the door, blocking out some of the light that tried to floor into the room from the hallway. “Thomas, I-”

“What are you doing, Nora?” he asked, unable to keep the panic out of his tone as he raised his voice. “You shouldn’t be in here alone.”

You dragged your lower lip between your teeth, but he didn’t miss the way that it had trembled. “I want to be a good mother, Thomas,” you whispered through your tears. “I want to be a good mother to our Georgie and Charlotte.” 

He approached you slowly, kneeling down next to you and looking over Charlotte surreptitiously. His actions hadn’t been missed by your observant gaze, though. “I haven’t hurt her, if that’s what you’re worried about. I may not...I’ve neglected them, I know that, but I would never hurt our daughters, Thomas. Never.”

He closed his eyes, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his brows as he swallowed thickly. “I know that, love,” he lied. “I know.”

“I can’t sleep,” you told him, “so I thought I’d come in here and just sit with them, but then she started to cry and I had to...I couldn’t let her just cry.”

The corners of his lips tugged upwards into a smile. “See, love. You’re a good mother. You might not feel like it, but that instinct is still in you.” He smoothed your hair back with a gentle hand. “You just need time.”

“Stay with me, Thomas,” you pleaded. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep at all tonight, and I want to stay here. I haven’t seen our girls in weeks.”

He nodded, smiling softly at you as your fingers ghosted over Charlotte’s chubby cheek. “We’ll stay in here. Together. We’ll get back to normal together, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i did some research into postpartum depression in the 1920's and everything that nora went through - confinement, opium prescriptions, being separated from the child(ren), tepid baths - was the way that it was "treated" back in the day. more specifically women were tied to their beds rather than just simply confined to their rooms, but i figured that was a bit much. for the very severe cases, women were admitted to asylums and occasionally had lobotomies performed on them.  
> thank god for modern medicine, right?


	34. interlude xi. pay them no mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to dance with my wife,” he answered, his eyes challenging you to question him further.
> 
> You rose to the challenge - he really should have known you would - and you asked him, “You wanted to dance with me, or you wanted to have a dick measuring contest with Alfie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this from my phone rather than my laptop because my husband came to bed early and doesn’t know i write fanfic, so it is very likely there’s many grammar/structure mistakes here 😅

Tommy noticed that you made steady progress as time went on. You didn’t get better overnight, but you did get better.

First, it was subtle - always checking on them before going to bed for the evening, joining Mary when she took short walks with Georgie around the estate, buying Georgie a new picture book each time you went to the bookstore for yourself. Then, it was less subtle - carrying Charlotte around as she fussed endlessly during sleepless nights, playing with Georgie when the toddler grew tired of having Mary keep her occupied, reading to Georgie during bedtime as you slowly rocked Charlotte to sleep. Eventually, about a month after he’d found you in the nursery with Charlotte, Tommy came home to find you in the nursery once again, rocking Charlotte gently as she suckled from your breast and Georgie played on the floor at your feet. 

“The milk was spoiled,” you reasoned, though he could see the look of love and relief and happiness in your expressive eyes as you stared down at your youngest daughter while she drank greedily. 

“How do you feel, love?” he had asked you.

You smiled up at him, genuinely looking happy again. “Good,” you reassured, and he had no reason to not believe you.

And yet you still held him at arm's length. 

You’d gotten caught up in your work when you finally felt well enough to return to the office every few days to gather more work to take home, spending a majority of your day in Tommy’s office working while he was in Birmingham at the office. 

On top of your work responsibilities, you had committed yourself to being there for your children, to being a good mother, and by the time Tommy returned home from work each night, you were busy playing with Georgie or walking up and down the hall with Charlotte to sooth her.

(You had certainly been right when you said you would have your hands full with Charlotte).

By the time he had joined you in bed for the night, hopeful to return the missing intimacy to your relationship, you were always already asleep, snoring softly with your back turned to him. Tommy supposed a consolation was that he always woke up to find your head rested on his chest and your legs tangled with his. 

The lack of intimacy itself didn’t bother him, rather it was the ease with which you opened up to others around you easily. You and Michael had quickly become the best of friends, to the point where you and Tommy had decided to name him as Charlotte’s godfather. You and Lizzie had even formed a tentative friendship, shopping together on weekends and getting lunch together at the office during days that were too busy to go leave for lunch. Alfie fucking Solomons had even come up to Birmingham for a meeting with you, and you greeted him like an old friend, hugging him briefly before leading him into an empty office and closing the door behind you. 

He hardly got any work done while you were behind that closed door with Alfie, wondering what could possibly get him to make the trip up from London. Instead of focusing on the latest shipping reports from the factories, Tommy’s focus was squarely on that closed door, as if willing it to open and reveal what was happening between you and Alfie beyond it. 

Twenty minutes after you had closed the door, it swung open and Alfie strode out, smirking at him through the open door of his office and calling out, “You got a hell of a wife, Tommy boy,” before walking through the office and leaving without another word. 

He didn’t get the chance to find out what that meeting had been for until late April, shortly before your first wedding anniversary when you hosted a charity gala in the hopes of securing more funding for the Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children. It had quickly become your pet project once you’d returned to work after Charlotte’s birth, and you’d spent weeks making sure that all preparations were in order for the gala.   


In the midst of those preparations you even interviewed new nanny candidates (after they, their families, and their references went through a rigorous vetting process courtesy of the Peaky Blinders).

The night of the gala, Tommy watched you with an amused smile while he waited for you in the foyer and you went over the bedtime instructions for Georgie and Charlotte for the fourth time with the new nanny. He held your hand on the drive into the city, feeling the fear of leaving your daughters with a nanny radiating off of you.

(He tried to reassure you that the nanny had been thoroughly vetted, that she and her family had no known ties to extremist groups or any other factions that counted the Peaky Blinders as their enemy, that all of her references came from well-known families in northern England that had been checked out by the boys. It all fell on deaf ears, though. Tommy knew deep down that that fear would never leave you so long as someone other than yourself, Tommy, or Mary was put in charge of the girls’ care, so he did his best to comfort you with his gentle touch).

And as soon as you arrived, you’d been pulled away by potential donors, and he got to watch you in your element. To Tommy, you seemed almost ethereal, flitting about the room from person to person to convince them to donate to the cause. Your persuasion abilities, of which he’d been on the receiving end often, were something to be envied. You did not intimidate people, you did not needlessly charm them with blatant sexuality, you did not grovel for their donations like so many of them probably desired. Instead, you carried yourself like a woman worthy of bearing the Shelby name. You charmed them with your genuine desire to help the children of Birmingham, with your calm demeanor as you answered their many questions, with your breathtaking smile as you thanked the many donors and convinced potential donors to contribute to the cause.

Hell, you had charmed him from across the room six years ago at the Garrison, all without speaking more than ten words to him. A room full of rich men and women willing to throw their money at a charitable cause was no challenge to you at all.

His eyes had latched onto your form, greedily eyeing your curves that had remained after Charlotte’s birth as you danced with Michael, your face lit up with happiness and a sense of ease that he hadn’t seen in months as his cousin twirled you around, laughing merrily and your cheeks coloring from the slight exertion.

Tommy had been so entranced watching you that he hadn’t noticed the man next to him until he asked, “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Without turning, he looked at the man from the corner of his eye, scowling when he saw who it was. “Watchin’ her charm those noble pricks outta their money is somethin’ I could spend all night doin’. 

“What are you doing here, Alfie?” Tommy asked, not even attempting to conceal his displeasure at the other man’s presence.

“Didn’t your wife tell you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Fuckin’ charmed me outta my money, too, so I figured I should at least drop by, see what this is all about, yeah.”

Tommy’s eyes flitted back to you, finding you easily in the crowd as you danced with an older man that he recognized as one of the newly elected councilors in Birmingham. “She could convince a blind man to give her his seeing eye dog if she really wanted it,” Tommy remarked, his eyes never leaving you as the dance came to an end. 

Alfie snorted, clearly amused with the imagery his statement conjured in his mind. “Not wrong about that. She’s a special kinda woman, very skilled with that tongue o’ hers.”

“That she is, Alfie,” Tommy agreed, a smile tugging at his lips as you met his gaze across the room. He watched as you gracefully weaved between the people in the crowd, smiling and greeting some as you went.

Before you could reach them, Alfie leaned in and added, “I s’pose she’s good with words, too.” 

Tommy rolled his eyes at the bawdy implication, trying to force down the rising anger at his quip about you, at the reminder that the Jew had known you intimately once, too. He didn’t get a chance to retort as you approached him, one hand fisted in the skirt of your dress to keep from tripping on it as you walked. 

You smiled at him softly before greeting Alfie with a hug and a kiss to his bearded cheek. Tommy’s jaw tensed as you chatted, a smile on your lips and laughter bubbling from within you as Alfie made a quip about his general opinion of the attendees. 

“How ‘bout a dance, love,” Alfie suggested, and Tommy’s hands clenched into fists at his side. “Figured if I’m here I might as well dance with the woman o’ the hour, yeah.”

You snorted in amusement, taking his proffered hand. “Might as well,” you retorted, though the smile on your face told Tommy you were more than happy to take him up on his offer. “It’ll give me a break from the others.”

And as you and Alfie walked away from Tommy, leaving him alone with nothing but his smoke and drink, he heard Alfie say, “Does it surprise you that all those cunts wanna dance with a beautiful woman, love?” The way you blushed at his question had Tommy seething in anger, trying to figure out how Alfie fucking Solomons got more of a reaction out of you in a single interaction than he had in weeks. 

His eyes never left you, even after you nearly disappeared within the crowd of dancing attendees. Tommy watched with hawk-like eyes as you and Alfie danced all while chatting amicably. It was all very seemingly friendly, and Tommy was fine with that. Absolutely fucking fine with it. 

He took long drag after long drag of his cigarette, quickly burning it down to nothing but a nub as he watched you dance one, two, three songs with Alfie, the Jewish man’s hand sliding lower and lower on your back with each consecutive dance, before Tommy finally had enough and stamped his cigarette out in one of the many ashtrays scattered about the large room.

He weaved through the crowd, his shoulders bumping into others carelessly as he made his way to you. You met his gaze over Alfie’s shoulder, your expressive eyes wide with curiosity. “Thomas, what are you doing?” you asked, and Alfie turned around to regard Tommy, a knowing grin half hidden beneath his beard. 

“I figured it was time I danced with my wife,” he responded casually before turning his gaze on Alfie. “If you’d excuse us, Mr. Solomons.” He reached out and plucked your hand from Alfie’s grip, tugging you into his arms just as other couples began to gather for the start of a new song.

Alfie’s brows shot up on his forehead at the bold gesture, nodding as he acquiesced. “‘Course, ‘course. It’s about time I get the fuck outta Birmingham anyway.” He turned to you, his expression softening when you smiled at him. “Thank you for the company, love. How ‘bout next time you wanna charm me outta my hard-earned money, you come to London, hm? Stop by the bakery. Ollie misses you.”

“Ollie misses me, or you miss me, Alfie?” you quipped teasingly.

“Tomayto, tomahto.”

You laughed, the melodic sound forcing a smile onto Tommy’s lips. “Goodnight, Alfie.”

“Goodnight, love.” Alfie turned to Tommy, eyeing the grip he had on your waist before his gaze lifted to meet Tommy’s. “Tommy.”

And then Alfie fucking Solomons was gone, and he was finally alone with you, your body pressed tightly to his as you began to dance amongst the other couples. 

“Thomas Shelby,” you began, pulling his attention away from the direction Alfie had disappeared in and down to you as you looked up at him. “What the hell was that?”

“I wanted to dance with my wife,” he answered, his eyes challenging you to question him further.

You rose to the challenge - he really should have known you would - and you asked him, “You wanted to dance with me, or you wanted to have a dick measuring contest with Alfie?” 

He averted his gaze, not wanting to get into this in the middle of the gala that you were hosting, not wanting to get into this in the midst of all of these people that didn’t need to know that his wife was possibly the only person he would allow to call him on his bullshit. 

“Alfie is a friend, Thomas, and I am in short supply of those these days.” He felt an ache deep within his chest at the sound of the sadness in your voice. You had smiled all night, had laughed all night, but he knew that you were still hurting beneath it all. He cupped your face with one hand while the other settled on your hip. “It was nice to see him because he’s a good friend, nothing more.”

“He wants to fuck you,” he commented quietly, his gaze dancing around the other dancing pairs to ensure that no one was actively listening into your conversation.

“Yes, and I bet half of the women here wouldn’t say no to fucking you, Thomas.” You reached up to kiss him softly, the gesture surprising him slightly. It had been so long since you’d initiated any physical intimacy that your kiss was the last thing he had been expecting. You pressed yourself even closer, standing on your toes so that your lips brushed against the skin just below his ear as you whispered, “You don’t need to be jealous. The only man that I want inside of me, that I ever need inside of me is you.”

His hand on your hip dug into your clothed flesh, his body responding to your words and your proximity as if he were a teenage boy again. “Nora,” he hissed when your hand dragged across his abdomen agonizingly slow. “Don’t start something you won’t finish, love.”

Your expressive eyes flashed with mischief and you dragged the plump pink flesh of your lower lip between your teeth enticingly. “Who said I wouldn’t finish it?”

His brows shot up in surprise. “You haven’t exactly been willing to even start anything lately, love, let alone finish it.”

You swallowed, and he watched as a look of understanding settled in your eyes. “I know,” you admitted. “I haven’t been myself lately, and I...I took it out on you, Thomas. I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting you to say, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “You don’t need to apologize, Nora.”

You smiled up at him sweetly as you swayed and spun to the music. “No, but I should. The past six months haven’t been easy for either of us, and I certainly didn’t make it any easier for you. I’ll try to make it up to you, Thomas. I promise.” 

“And how do you plan to do that, love?” he asked, head slightly tilted to the side in curiosity. 

“Well, for starters, we’re going to say goodnight to our donors and slip out of here early so you can have your way with me,” you suggested, a slight coquettish smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Then we’ll go from there.”

“Seems like a logical plan to me,” he responded, making you laugh happily. 

As soon as was considered polite, he took you up on your suggestion. He was eager to get you naked and beneath him as soon as you got home, but his eagerness had led to you climbing into his lap in the car with his belt unbuckled, his trousers pushed down slightly, and your dress hitched up around your hips as you lowered yourself onto his cock. He groaned into the crook of your neck at the feeling of being inside of you for the first time in six goddamned months.

It wasn’t how he’d wanted it to happen. He’d wanted to take his time with you, shower you with the affection you deserved from him after you gave him another perfect little girl to dote on and battled with your own ghosts and demons to be the kind of mother he knew you always were.

But as he listened to the soft sighs he managed to elicit from you, followed by his name tumbling from your lips as you careened over the edge, he realized he would be happy with whatever you were willing to give him - whether that be ten minutes in the front seat of his car or hours locked away in your bedroom at Arrow House.


	35. interlude xii. the burdens you bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy couldn’t quite remember how the night had gone from good-humored insults and commentary to a fucking nightmare, but it without a doubt had happened sometime after finishing a second bottle of vodka and after his hands beginning to wander under the skirt of your dress while Tatiana pretended not to notice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *unedited*

In the week leading up to your twenty-sixth birthday, Tommy tried his best to make sure that you didn’t feel too deeply the absence of your friends and family that still refused to speak with you or him. 

You were kept busy at work with increased donations to the Shelby Charity Foundation and a minor expansion of the Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children, and after you’d finished your work for the day you would disappear with Michael and Lizzie, only to be found by Tommy an hour later at the Garrison, a glass of your favorite whiskey in your hand and a smile on your face as you and the others shared anecdotes about the girls or the various people you’d interacted with throughout the day.

It made him smile to see you so happy, so unburdened, but he knew that each time your eyes flitted around the room as if you were looking for someone, you were still highly attuned to the absence of the people you used to spend nights at the Garrison with. 

You were also kept busy at home, chasing after a far too energetic two and half year old and soothing a teething four month old. Sleepless nights were not rare in the Shelby household by any means, but Tommy allowed himself to be thankful that the cause of the sleepless nights were restless children and not nightmares and voices in your head. 

There were still nights when he would see you hesitate before picking Charlotte up to rock her back to sleep or before pulling Georgie into your lap to read to her, but you’d gotten better, looking and acting more and more like the woman he married with each passing day. 

It didn’t hurt that the intimacy between you and Tommy had returned tenfold after the night of the gala, and it almost reminded him of those first few months of your relationship after he walked you home from the Garrison. He’d had you at any convenient moment, whether it be hours spent exploring each other’s bodies at home in the privacy of your bedroom, quick romps in his office with you bent over his desk and your dress pulled up around your hips, or drunk fumblings in the private parlour at the Garrison with you laid across the table like a feast for him.

You’d called him out for his insatiable need to be inside you a few times over the last couple of months, especially after a particularly indecent moment in his office with Lizzie speaking to him through the closed door as he fucked you, one hand curled into your hair while the other covered your mouth to muffle your sounds of pleasure. 

Afterwards, you had fixed your dress and cleaned your thighs with the handkerchief that Tommy passed to you, eyeing him sternly as you said, “If you keep this up, you’ll either need to get much better at pulling out or prepare yourself to be a father of three.”

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at you, feeling particularly pleased with himself when he saw the way that your blush crept from your cheeks and down your neck, disappearing below the neckline of your dress. “Would that be so bad?”

You laughed as you shrugged your coat on, raising a brow at him. “I just gave birth a few months ago, Thomas. Give me at least a short break before I need to do it again.” You turned to face him fully, regarding him once more before you left to return to your office across town. “Or you could always use a condom,” you suggested, a challenging look in your expressive eyes.

He blinked up at you, his lips curling into an amused smile. “Where’s the fun in that, love?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I’ll see you at home, Thomas,” you called over your shoulder as you walked out of his office, and he hadn’t missed the confused look from Lizzie when she saw you, clearly unaware that you had been in his office at all.

He certainly didn’t listen to your suggestions the morning of your birthday, finishing deep within you before rolling onto his back and lounging languidly while he watched you dress for the day, the first cigarette of the day between his lips.

He managed to keep you busy throughout the morning, doing his very best to keep your mind off of the absence of friends and family. He presented you with flowers from your garden before breakfast, smiling as Georgie started to pick through the blooms and pulled petals from various flowers. He presented you with various gifts after breakfast had been cleared and you and the girls had migrated into the drawing room while he took a call in his office, gladly accepting your kisses of thanks for the new books and dresses from Paris. 

You soon settled into your usual spot on the sofa, a book in one hand and another rested on Charlotte as she laid between you and Tommy on the sofa, her expressive eyes roaming around the room, and Georgie happily played with her dolls at your feet, babbling back and forth as if speaking to friends.

It didn’t take long before the family moment had been interrupted, the housekeeper poking her head into the room. “Mrs. Shelby,” Mary began, “you have a visitor.”

You glanced over at Tommy, your expressive gaze full of curiosity as he looked at you over the top of the morning newspaper that Mary had given him after breakfast. “Don’t look at me, love.” You looked at him suspiciously, not quite believing he had nothing to do with the visitor. Finally, you turned to Mary and nodded before following her to the foyer. 

His attention was captured by you once more when he heard your surprised voice carry through the foyer and into the drawing room. “What are you doing here?” 

He folded the newspaper, placing it on the side table, and turned to Georgie. “Should we go see who’s here to visit Mummy?”

Her big eyes - his eyes - widened as she picked herself up from the ground and took off in the direction you had disappeared in. He chuckled, lifting Charlotte into his arms as she stretched sleepily.

Of all the people he had been anticipating to find with you in the foyer, Tatiana Petrovna had not been one of them. “What are you doing here?” he repeated the question he had heard you ask. His gaze danced around the room, taking in the way that Georgie hid behind your legs, staring up at the stranger; taking in the luggage that was on the floor beside Tatiana’s feet; taking in the way that you smiled widely, as if you were excited to see the Russian woman again.

“It is Eleanora’s birthday, yes?” She cocked her head to the side, a smile playing on her lips as he gaze flitted between you and Tommy. “I’m here to celebrate a friend’s birthday, Mr. Shelby.”

And so began the first day of hosting the Duchess as your guest.

He had planned a simple dinner for just you and him, but Tatiana’s arrival had put a halt to that. Instead, an extra place setting had been placed on the table for Tatiana, and she joined you, Tommy and the girls for dinner that night, watching you interact with Tommy and your daughters curiously as you chatted with her about Vienna.

After dinner she had presented you with a gift, a string of pearls that he recognized from nearly a year prior. It hadn’t escaped your notice either, and you questioned, “Aren’t these from the vault?”

“They are,” Tatiana confirmed. “I noticed that you had a preference for pearls.”

The string of pearls wasn’t the only thing that she had brought along from Vienna.

Once the girls had been put down for the night, you and Tatiana sat in the drawing room, drinking from the bottle of vodka that she had brought as you traded thinly veiled insults and quips that occasionally alluded to Tatiana’s past - present? - desire to fuck Tommy. He could hardly wrap his head around the strange friendship that you seemed to have developed with the Russian woman. If he hadn’t witnessed the way you interacted and only heard the barbed conversations, he never would have assumed you actually enjoyed the other woman’s company.

He had thought that he would be able to leave you and Tatiana alone to chat while he spent time finishing up some work in his office late into the evening, and when he returned to the drawing room, both of you were thoroughly drunk, snapping at one another before quickly dissolving into girlish giggles. Tommy had joined in the merriment at your urging, unable to say no to you even though he really should have just dragged you off to bed at that point, and soon you were perched on his lap, fingers dancing over the skin on the back of his neck - all while making lewd comments to Tatiana about you ‘being the one to fuck him daily’. 

Drunk Nora was both vulgar and bold, and Tommy didn’t really have it in him to complain when your soft touch was sending shivers down the column of his spine.

Tommy couldn’t quite remember how the night had gone from good-humored insults and commentary to a fucking nightmare, but it without a doubt had happened sometime after finishing a second bottle of vodka and after his hands beginning to wander under the skirt of your dress while Tatiana pretended not to notice. 

What he was absolutely sure of was that Tatiana was fucking insane and he wasn’t sure how you had ever become friends with the woman. He assumed you were wondering the same thing as you pleaded with her to put his gun down, to stop playing that fucked up game that she was so intent on playing simply to get an adrenaline rush. 

Russian roulette, she had called it. No fucking wonder all the Russians he had ever met seemed like they should be institutionalized. 

“Tatiana, stop this madness!” you cried after the first time she held the muzzle of the pistol to her temple and pulled the trigger, your voice breaking as your distress grew. “Please. Please, stop.”

“Where’s the fun in that, Eleanora?” she teased, her dark eyes flashing with amusement. Tommy felt you flinch in his arms as she pulled the trigger again, giggling drunkenly as no bullet was fired.

“Stop, please,” you pleaded through fresh tears. “I can’t do this again. I can’t. I fucking can’t. Don’t do this, Tatiana. Please, I can’t do this again.”

The Russian woman lowered the gun slightly, her head tilting to the side in curiosity. “Can’t do what?”

“Fucking watch someone kill themselves!” you screamed at her, and had Tommy not had his arms looped around your waist, you would have crumpled to a heap on the ground when your legs gave out. “I can’t fucking do it again!”

The shift in the mood of the room was tangible. Tommy wasn’t sure what to say as the meaning behind your words sunk in, a new understanding of the ghost that haunted you for years dawning on him. His gaze flickered up to Tatiana, and he saw a mix of shock and sympathy crossing her features as she placed the pistol on the surface of his desk, looking like she had sobered instantly. 

“Nora, love,” Tommy breathed as he lowered you to the ground, pulling you into his lap and rocking you gently, as if he was simply soothing Georgie or Charlotte, not his wife that was reliving possibly the worst moment of her life. “Nora, look at me, love.”

“I was there,” you croaked hoarsely. “I was there, Thomas. I was there when Ben put a fucking bullet in his head. I was fucking there. I watched my brother kill himself.  _ I was fucking there _ .”

Your admission made him stiffen, and he took a deep breath, trying to understand why you’d never told him that. You’d told him everything there was to tell about your older brother - how he had been your best friend, how the war had changed him (like it had changed all of them), how you had known something was wrong, how you had been the one to find him - and yet that detail, the fact that you had actually been there when he pulled the trigger, had never been mentioned. 

Tatiana approached cautiously, crouching down beside you and Tommy as he gently gripped your chin and lifted your head, your expressive gaze - filled with so much sadness and anguish and terror - finally meeting his. “I didn’t know, Eleanora,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

Tommy felt your tears dripping from your face, landing heavily against the skin of his arm. “No one knew,” you whispered, taking a shaky breath and wiping your tears away with the back of your hand. “I never told anyone. Not the police, not my uncle, no one.” 

You bit your lower lip in an attempt to stop it from trembling, and Tommy’s thumb was quick to drag across the plump pink flesh, removing it from between your teeth. You glanced up at him, your eyes shining with more unshed tears. “I couldn’t stop him, Thomas. I tried, but it wasn’t good enough. I tried to stop him, but Ben still…” You trailed off, your body wracked by sobs. 

Tommy pulled you tighter against his chest, his hand combing through your hair as he tried to sooth you, tried to drive away your tears, tried to keep your ghosts at bay. His gaze snapped up to Tatiana, surprised at the look of remorse in her eyes. “I think it’s time you call it a night, Tatiana,” he suggested, his commanding tone leaving no room for argument. 

He watched her swallow thickly, blinking as she watched you cry in his arms. Finally, she nodded, standing. With one final look at you curled in his arms, she walked from the room without another word. 

After he heard her footsteps on the stairs, Tommy turned his attention to you, whispering soothing words and trying to coax the stress from your body with his touch. When you finally stopped trembling and your eyes had been dried with the front of his shirt, he carried you up to bed, hoping that the events of the night wouldn’t haunt you in your dreams.

“Don’t shut me out, love,” he urged as you curled into his side beneath the blankets. “Talk to me.”

You sniffled before meeting his gaze, your eyes red and swollen from the tears you shed. “What is there to say, Thomas?” you asked incredulously, your words still slightly slurred. “I watched my brother kill himself. I tried to stop him, but nothing I said got through to him. He pulled the trigger, and I watched him fucking die.” You huffed humorlessly, the slightest hint of a sob breaking through. “And then I just stood there, not knowing what to do. I felt like I failed him, like I hadn’t done enough to save him from himself. I had nightmares about that day every night for months afterwards.” You averted your gaze and lowered your voice as you added, “I still do sometimes. I dreamt about him after I killed Changretta, but in those dreams I had actually been the one to pull the trigger.”

Tommy took your face between his hands, his touch rough yet gentle as he forced you to look at him again. “But you didn’t, love. You didn’t pull the trigger. He did, and he never should’ve pulled the trigger in front of you. He shouldn’t have burdened you with the memory of that.”

You shook your head, smiling sadly at him. “I could’ve done more to help him. I knew he was struggling, knew that he hadn’t been the same after the war, but I was just so happy to have him home again, to pretend that things were the same as they had been before he enlisted and went to France. I could’ve done more, Thomas.” Your hand brushed over his jawline, your fingers tracing over the few scars that marred his skin. “I think that’s why I was so determined to help you battle your demons when we met.”

“You helped, Nora,” Tommy breathed, his lips ghosting over yours as he leaned closer. “You still help. Every fuckin’ night, love.”

Tommy laid awake that night even after you had fallen asleep, your head pillowed on his chest as you snored softly and tossed and turned every now and then. He thought about how long you had carried the burden of that final memory of your brother, how long you had carried the guilt of not being able to stop him. It gave him a deeper understanding of the woman he had already understood better than anyone else, better than even himself on most days.

He was relieved that you had slept through the entire night, no nightmares waking you or voices calling out to you in the middle of the night to make you wander the halls, to cry and call out for your long dead brother.  Instead, you stayed in his arms all night, somewhat restless - though he thankfully avoided the occasional knee to the groin - and sometimes whimpering, and eventually physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion dragged him into a fitful slumber. 

After very little sleep, he woke to find you already dressing for the day, hiding most of the distress that you still felt from the night before behind a bright smile. Tommy didn't miss the way that your shoulders were tense or the way that your expressive eyes still shone with sorrow and anguish, though.  “Good morning,” you greeted him cheerfully, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you buttoned up the front of your dress.

You went about your weekend morning routine like nothing had happened the night before - watching over Georgie as she ate her breakfast while Charlotte suckled from your breast and you picked at the fruit on your plate; discussing upcoming work with Tommy while you drank your tea and he smoked his first cigarette of the day; reading on the sofa after Charlotte had been put down for her morning nap while Georgie cuddled up to you on the couch, fighting against her body’s desire to sleep as well.

Tommy kept a close eye on you as your routine went uninterrupted until late morning, when Tatiana appeared looking worse for wear, dark bags under her bloodshot eyes and her clothes slightly rumpled. 

It wasn’t her appearance that had caught your attention, though. Rather, you commented on the luggage at her feet. “Where are you going?” you asked her, your lilting voice full of curiosity.

“I thought that I may have overstayed my welcome after last night,” she said, keeping her chin raised though her meek tone didn’t match her confident attitude. 

Tommy would have agreed with her, but instead, you surprised both Tommy and Tatiana by shaking your head and smiling up at her. “No, stay. Please.” You glanced at Tommy, your expressive eyes boring into him momentarily before you turned back to the other woman. “I don’t have many friends willing to visit me these days. We’re going into the city tonight to go to a jazz club. Stay and come with us, Tatiana.”

Tatiana met Tommy’s eyes over your shoulders, an apprehensive look on her face. He sighed and nodded subtly. She smiled, her dark gaze flitting to you. “Okay. I will stay.”

“Good,” you declared. You fell silent for a moment before adding, “Just no more fucking Russian roulette, hm?”

Tommy smiled behind his newspaper, glad to see that the past night’s experience hadn’t made you any less assertive with the Russian woman.


	36. interlude xiii. didn’t think i cared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you fuckin’ him?” he finally asked after you and him had settled in the drawing room again, silence filling the space between you as you read and he watched you, a fresh cigarette held between his lips.
> 
> “Excuse me?” you asked and met his gaze, your eyes wide with surprise at his sudden question. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how i feel about this interlude...  
> at least it gives some more insight into the current status of the family relationships going into season 4 events i guess?

Three weeks after Tatiana returned to Vienna following her extended visit, Tommy started to notice subtle changes in you, and those changes all related to a single person.

The first change he noticed was that you were working later, spending long hours locked in an office with Michael as you poured over the accounts and balance sheets and various other documents that pertained to the cash flow of his various businesses. Those long hours eventually started extending into the evening, and Tommy would find you eating a small dinner with Michael, a glass of your favorite whiskey sitting half empty on the table in front of you. Your cheeks were often flushed those nights, though Tommy wasn’t sure if it was from the drink or from the words that Michael whispered to you when your heads were lowered, bent towards one another. 

He had dismissed that as friendly interaction, and ignored the way you pressed your lips to Michael’s cheek each night before you left the office on Tommy’s arm to return home to your daughters.

The second change he noticed was the way you had started joining Michael at the Garrison after work during the evenings that Tommy had other business to handle in the city before returning home for the night rather than accepting his offer of having someone drive you home.

“I’ll wait for you,” you had always said in response to his offer, your gaze sliding to Michael as he continued to work at his desk on the other side of the office. “I think I’ll get a drink at the Garrison, enjoy some good company.”

Tommy always hesitated to leave you alone on those nights, not willing to leave you in the company of Michael when his mind forced him to recall the way Michael had looked at you all those years ago when he was first introduced to you and the family. Instead, he asked Lizzie to accompany you and Michael, to keep an eye on you.

For a time, she had done as Tommy asked, sitting at the Garrison with you and Michael late into the night until Tommy strode through the doors and collected you to go home, trying to ignore the way you threw your arms around Michael as you said goodnight. 

Eventually though, Lizzie stopped indulging him and left you and Michael to yourselves.

Some nights, Tommy would arrive to see you happily chatting with Michael, Finn and Isiah, your cheeks colored pink from the whiskey you drank while you waited for him. 

Those nights, he would join you and the boys for a few drinks, his eyes lingering on your form as you laughed and smiled and joked with the others, and Tommy even found himself preferring those nights over the others simply for the fact that his youngest brother was willing to speak to him, a stark contrast to his other brothers. 

Other nights, the nights when Tommy would arrive to see you sitting with no one but Michael, head thrown back as you laughed at something he said, he regretted not sending you home despite your insistence that you would wait for him. 

Those nights, Tommy would watch you interact with his cousin before approaching. He would watch as you leaned in close to Michael so he could be heard over the noise of the other patrons. He would watch as you would place your hand over Michael’s, a soft look in your expressive eyes as you looked at him with a tender smile. He would watch as Michael wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in close and holding you against him as you laughed happily. 

It was always that gesture that would drive him over the edge, making him stride over to your table and order you to gather your coat so he could take you home. He tried to ignore the way that you threw your arms around Michael before following Tommy through the pub, wishing him a goodnight and promising to check in with him in the morning once you got to the office.

The third change he noticed was that you were starting to invite Michael to dinners at Arrow House far more often than you invited anyone else. His cousin would even linger after dinner, sitting in the drawing room and smoking with Tommy as you read your book, smiling over at the men and occasionally inserting a comment into their conversation. 

There had been one instance on a night that Michael had joined you for dinner that Tommy had disappeared into his office after the plates had been cleared from the table, needing to make a call to have someone deal with a minor disturbance at one of his factories. When he returned to the drawing room, he hadn’t missed the way that you had scrambled to put distance between you and Michael, your eyes flitting up to Tommy as he paused in the doorway, looking between you and his cousin with narrowed eyes. 

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, his hard gaze lingering on Michael as he watched the younger man look anywhere but at you. “Is there something I should know about?”

You stood and approached Tommy, your hand gripping his arm and squeezing gently. “It’s nothing, Thomas,” you tried to assure him, but he couldn’t help but feel like he still needed to mark his territory. He pulled you into a deep kiss, his hands cupping your face as he pressed his lips firmly against yours. When he pulled away, you blinked at him in confusion, licking your lips. “A little eager tonight, hm?” you teased, your expressive eyes sparkling with delight at his kiss. “Keep Michael company while I check on the girls.”

You pressed your lips to his cheek once before disappearing from the room, leaving Tommy with his cousin. He stood in his spot, unmoving as he looked down at Michael with a stony expression. “Is it nothing, Michael?” he finally asked, observing his cousin’s reaction closely. 

“Don’t you trust your wife, Tommy?” Michael asked rather than answering his question, and it caught Tommy off guard. He did trust you, didn’t he? So why did your close relationship with Michael bother him so much?

He thought back to the nights at the Garrison when Michael had watched you from the corner of his eyes, his cheeks flushing each time you turned your gaze on him. He thought back to the way you’d fucked John when you felt vulnerable, and he thought back to how you had been vulnerable when Michael came back into your life over six months ago. Years ago, you were vulnerable because you felt abandoned by Tommy, and now you were vulnerable because you felt abandoned by the rest of the family. Were the situations comparable?

You returned from checking on the girls before Tommy had been able to sort out his feelings, and after making a teasing quip about how he was still stood in the doorway where you had left him, you dragged him over the sofa, laying your feet in his lap as you began a conversation with Michael about something Finn had mentioned on your most recent night at the Garrison.

Long after the sun had set, Michael stood and announced that he would be heading home, thanking you for dinner and the company. You were quick to join Michael as he walked through the house to foyer, and Tommy followed, keeping his distance as he watched you help Michael into his coat and hugged him tightly, pressing your lips to his cheek before whispering something that Tommy couldn’t hear.

He tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the rising jealousy that he felt when he watched you interact with Michael, tried to ignore the traitorous thoughts of you naked and tangled up with Michael. He tried, he really did, but he just couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“Are you fuckin’ him?” he finally asked after you and him had settled in the drawing room again, silence filling the space between you as you read and he watched you, a fresh cigarette held between his lips.

“Excuse me?” you asked and met his gaze, your eyes wide with surprise at his sudden question. 

He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke before repeating, “Are you fuckin’ Michael?”

“Of course I’m not, Thomas! What the hell would make you think that?”

He thought back to all of the subtle changes - the long hours, the nights at the Garrison, the increasing dinner invitations. “You’ve been hiding things from me, meeting him at all hours of the night, spending hours locked in your office with him. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

You swallowed thickly and averted your gaze, sucking your lower lip between your teeth. “I’ve been helping him, talking to him, supporting him,” you whispered, and Tommy blinked in confusion. “He’s not well, Thomas. He doesn’t sleep, and when he is tired enough to sleep, he uses cocaine to stay awake. He’s not well.”

He was beginning to understand, but only barely. There were still things that he couldn’t wrap his head around, so he asked, “Why do you need to be the one to help him, Nora? Why do you feel like you're responsible for helping him?”

“He reminds me of Ben. He reminds me of my brother, Thomas. That’s why I need to be the one to help him, I need to be the one to make sure he doesn’t end up like Ben.”

“Is this about some twisted idea of redemption? You feel like because you couldn’t save your brother you need to save Michael?”

You lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes. “Yes,” you admitted. “Michael is the way he is because of my actions, because of the deal that you made in order to protect me. Tell me how helping him isn’t my responsibility, Thomas.”

“If that’s the case, then why all the fuckin’ secrecy, Nora? Why not just fuckin’ tell me what was going on instead of letting me think you were sleeping with my fuckin’ cousin?”

“He didn’t want you to know, Thomas! He didn't want you to think he's weak for struggling. And don’t you dare make it seem like it’s my fault that you just automatically assumed I was having an affair.” You gaze flitted over him, from head to toe and back up to his eyes. “Not all of us are so easily lured into adulterous relationships.”

“I have kept my promise to you, Nora. Even when you refused to touch me for fuckin’ months, I kept my promise.”

You nodded, sighing deeply. “Yes, you did. But that doesn’t change the fact that May Carleton, Grace Burgess, and countless whores are a part of our past.” You scooted closer to him after marking your place in your book and setting it down, and you tilted your head to the side, curiosity shining in your expressive eyes. “Tell me, Thomas. What would you have done if I was having an affair with Michael? Would you have hurt Michael, maybe even killed him for touching what belongs to you? What would you have done to me?”

He didn’t have an answer for you. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, didn’t want to believe that you were actually having an affair. His desire to ignore the possibility that it was true had kept him from considering any potential outcomes. He especially wasn’t sure what he would have done with you. You were his wife, the mother of his children. You belonged to him, and the thought of another man having what was his was infuriating.

(A part of him, a small part at the back of his mind, wondered if that was how you felt each time he hadn't remained faithful, each time he broke your heart). 

Instead of answering, he gripped your chin in his hand, pulling you closer to him so that his lips brushed against yours as he said, “You’re mine, Eleanora. You belong to me and no one else. Not Michael, not Alfie fucking Solomons, no one. Do you understand?”

“I’ve always been yours, Thomas. Always.” You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, twisting your fingers into his hair and climbing into his lap. You bit his lip roughly as you pulled away, drawing blood. He wiped it away with his thumb, both anger and lust surging through him from your actions. You gripped his hair tightly, and his gaze latched onto yours, taking in the fury and lust and excitement that was unconcealed in your expressive eyes as you added, “But don’t ever question my fucking fidelity again.”

He’d taken you to bed then, and you both had been rougher than usual - you left scratches across the skin of his back and his chest, and he had left finger shaped bruises on your hips and blooms of purple along your chest and collarbones where he had nipped and sucked on the soft skin, deliberately marking you as his. His body ached in ways that it hadn’t since before you had found out you were pregnant with Charlotte, and he was pleasantly satisfied with the way the night had turned out despite it's rocky beginning.

And long after you’d rolled away from him, laying on your back and staring up at the ceiling as your chest heaved from the exertion while he lit his final cigarette of the night, you revealed, “Michael’s been helping me, too.”

He raised a brow at this, turning his head to look down at you. “With what, love?” Hadn’t Tommy been helping you deal with your burdens, your problems, your ghosts? 

“Loneliness,” you answered softly, your hand drifting across the sheets to tangle with his. “He’s been a good friend, Thomas. And that’s all he ever was. A friend. Maybe even my best friend now that Ada’s in Boston.” 

He knew that now. You’d made that point very clear when you used your touch and your words to remind him that you were his - _only his_ \- during the past hour.

You smiled softly up at him before confessing, “He even helped convince Arthur to meet with me. Arthur came to the Garrison one of the evenings you worked late, had a couple drinks with me, promised that he wouldn’t let Linda turn me away if I brought the girls over to meet their cousin.” Your smile grew wider as you rolled to your side, hooking a leg over his as you rested your head against his chest. “He loves being a father, Thomas. Absolutely loves it. He seems happy. I’d say he’s free of burden but Linda’s a fucking cow, so I don’t really believe he’s completely free of burden.”

Tommy chuckled at your blatant insult of Arthur’s wife. He knew you held no love for the woman from the moment you met her, when she immediately insulted you and Georgie. He couldn’t say he particularly liked the woman either after all the shit she had tried to pull last year. “Am I correct to assume that the invitation wasn’t extended to me?” he asked, feeling only the slightest tinge of hurt at the thought.

You squeezed his hand gently, a reassuring smile on your face. “He’ll come around eventually, Thomas. I can’t promise that the family will just forget everything that happened, but we can hope that they’ll at least have it in their hearts to forgive us.”

“Shelbys aren’t the forgiving kind,” he commented, feeling his aching muscles relax under your touch as your fingers danced up and down his arm. “You know that, Nora.”

“People change,” you countered with a halfhearted shrug. “Michael has been talking to some of the others. Between me and him, we may be able to convince Finn and Arthur to join us for dinner one of these nights. Georgie hasn’t seen her uncles in nearly a year, and none of your siblings have even met Charlotte.”

“John?” he asked, eyeing you from the corner of his eye as he puffed on his cigarette and dragged a hand through your hair.

You sighed and shook your head. “John and Esme are both stubborn people. Esme still won’t take my calls, and John shuts Michael down every time he mentions us.” There was a sadness in your expressive eyes when your gaze locked onto Tommy’s. “It’s nearly been a year, Thomas. Do you really think they’ll just cut us out of their lives for good?”

“I don’t really know anymore, love.” And he truly didn’t. He used to be able to say with certainty that his family would always stick together, but the past year had shown him that maybe he had been wrong about that all along. He hadn’t cared then, but looking at your crestfallen expression, knowing that you felt responsible for the void between them, he realized that was no longer the case. 

He only wanted you to be happy, and he knew that family brought you more happiness than material things ever could. Because of that, he had been forced to realize that he had been wrong twice in a single night. The first was that you were not having an affair with Michael. The second was that maybe he cared a little more than he was willing to admit when it came to the numerous rifts in his family.

Tommy knew that you wanted to celebrate his birthday with family next month, knew that you wanted to celebrate Georgie’s birthday with family in two months, knew that you wanted to celebrate Christmas with family in three months, knew that you didn’t want any more birthdays and holidays to go by without reconciling with family. He could only hope that you were right, that they would eventually come around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more interlude after this?


	37. interlude xiv. let me ask you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe,” he answered honestly, carding his fingers through your hair, mentally noting that it had grown longer than he had ever seen it in the seven years he had known you. “Were we selfish for bringing Georgie and Charlotte into the world?”
> 
> “Maybe,” you repeated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, this was not a planned interlude
> 
> (but it does serve to get the ball rolling on another family-based plotline that i've had planned since i started writing this, so there's that i guess?)

_“Do you want more children?”_

The question rattled around in the back of his mind since you had first asked him months ago. When you had asked then it had been more at his expense than you deliberately asking if he really wanted more children, he knew that, but yet he couldn’t shake the nagging question.

Did he want more children?

You had first asked shortly after the revival of your sexual relationship following Charlotte’s birth, teasing him often about his lack of interest in pulling out or using some other method of contraceptive. Truthfully, he just preferred to be inside you, no barriers between you, as close to you as was humanly possible. 

"Do you want more children?" you asked him teasingly as you cleaned your thighs and sorted your dress.

He had shrugged and continued buttoning the vest of his suit, watching you intently from across the room. "If it happens, it happens."

Pregnancy was certainly a possibility with as often as he fucked you, and a part of him remembered that it had hardly taken any time at all to conceive Charlotte after you had married Tommy, but when the idea of possibly getting you pregnant should have been on his mind, the only thing he could think of was how fucking incredible it felt to be inside of you and how full your breasts looked after two children and how absolutely fucking beautiful you looked, whether you were beneath him or above him, your eyes shut and lips slightly parted as you came undone around him. 

He hadn’t even thought to ask if you wanted more children.

_“Do you want more children?”_

The second time you asked him had happened after an incident involving the Chinese, when a man had tried to shoot him in the streets as you and him made your way to meet potential donors for a meeting over lunch. The man’s shot had been off, the bullet whizzing past his head as you screamed in horror.

Tommy had escaped that encounter unscathed, but the stray bullet had taken the life of a six year old girl that played in the streets, oblivious of the rampant danger around her in Birmingham. 

He held you as you cried that night, as you mourned a child you hadn't even known, as you whispered questions left and right through your tears. 

What if that little girl had been Georgie or Charlotte? What if the man’s aim had been better? What if he had died and left you and the girls all alone?

You later learned that the little girl was Eloise Parker, the only daughter of a seamstress and a wire cutter in one of Tommy’s factories. She had loved horses and pretty dresses, and she laughed often and was incredibly bright for her age. 

“Why is the world so cruel, Thomas?” you had asked him when you returned home from visiting the family. “Why does the world punish the young and innocent for the sins of others?”

He didn’t have an answer for you. If he did, he knew you probably wouldn’t have liked the answer anyway.

You’d talked Tommy into helping the family cover the girl’s funeral expenses, and you had even taken it upon yourself to help them pay for their sons’ enrollment at a good boarding school outside of the city, helping their remaining children get away from the increasing danger of the city, if only until they finished their education.

The night after the girl’s funeral, you had been in bed with him, your bodies slick with sweat and aching pleasantly when you had asked him. “Do you want more children, Thomas?” you asked him quietly, staring up at him with your expressive eyes through the haze of smoke he had only just exhaled. “Would it be selfish of us to bring more children into this world when we know of all of the dangers that they may face out there?”

“Maybe,” he answered honestly, carding his fingers through your hair, mentally noting that it had grown longer than he had ever seen it in the seven years he had known you. “Were we selfish for bringing Georgie and Charlotte into the world?”

“Maybe,” you repeated. 

“Regardless of if it were selfish or not, we do what we must to protect them. We’ve killed to protect our Georgie, we’d do the same for Charlotte, and we’d do the same for any other children we may have in the future.” He cupped your cheek, his gaze boring into yours. “I’d do anything for our girls, just like I know you would, too. Our family makes us stronger, Nora. Don’t forget that.”

He hadn’t even thought to ask if you wanted more children.

_“Do you want more children?”_

The third time you had asked him had come after you had tiptoed into his office one night while he was on a call, quietly shutting the door behind you as you met his gaze, giving him a soft reassuring smile as you took a seat in the chair across the desk from him and waited patiently for him to finish his call.

When he’d finally hung up and turned to you, he could see you worrying your lip between your teeth and nervously picking at the skin around your nails. “What’s wrong, love?” he asked, trying to figure out what could have made you fidget so much in the last ten minutes since he left you to your reading in the drawing room. “Is it one of the girls? Did something happen?”

“Yes,” you answered quickly before revising, “I mean, no. Yes and no. The girls are fine, but I think something did happen.”

Tommy brows knitted together in concern and confusion both, trying to observe you more closely for an answer in your body language. “Love, tell me what’s bothering-”

You cut him off abruptly, stating, “I think I’m pregnant, Thomas.”

He blinked at you, once, twice, three times. “Can you repeat that, love?”

You raised a brow but indulged him. “I said I think I’m pregnant. My monthly is late.” You took a deep breath and swallowed thickly, asking, “Do you want more children? I know I’ve asked before but you’ve never actually answered me.”

“Honestly, love,” he began, slumping in his chair. “I don’t know. Yes?”

You laughed, and Tommy couldn’t help but smile at the melodic sound. “You don’t sound so sure, Thomas.”

He shrugged. “I think I’d be happy with however many children you’re willing to give me, love.”

You bit your lip, hiding your growing smile as you nodded. “Good, good. I’ll need to see a doctor, have them confirm it.” Then you blinked and let out a breath of disbelief. “Charlotte hasn’t even celebrated her first birthday yet, and now we may be having another baby.”

“They’ll be close in age. It’ll be good for them,” he commented.

He hadn’t even thought to ask if you wanted more children.

_"Do you want more children?"_

Tommy finally asked you the question that had been bothering him for months two weeks before his thirty-fifth birthday.

He had come to bed late after a long day in Birmingham, going from factory to factory for meeting after meeting, and he found you already in bed with a sullen expression on your face as you stared across the room vacantly. You hadn’t said a word to him as he crawled beneath the blankets, and you silently curled against his side, your head resting on his chest as your fingers danced over the skin of his abdomen.

“How was your day, love?” he asked, using two fingers under your chin to lift your gaze to meet his. “You had an appointment with a physician today, yeah?”

You swallowed and averted your gaze. “I didn’t go,” you admitted with a shrug. “Didn’t need to. I’m not pregnant.”

“What?”

You nodded, confirming he had heard you correctly. “My monthly started this morning. I’m not pregnant.” There was a sadness in your voice, a longing for what you had thought you had. “I was actually looking forward to having another baby. Other than a few instances, our lives have been calm, free of danger. Our girls are happy, and I…” you trailed off, uncertainty creeping onto your features, shining in your expressive eyes. “I’ve been happy, Thomas. My brother doesn’t haunt me in my dreams, not anymore, not since I admitted to...to being there. I don’t dream about Changretta or Edith. I enjoy the work that I do for the Institute, I enjoy spending time with Michael and Lizzie, I enjoy coming home to our family every night and being reminded of all of the good in my life - you, Georgie, Charlotte. I’d started making room in my heart for another little piece of you and me, and it was never really there to begin with.”

“Love, look at me.” Your eyes snapped back to meet his, flitting over his face curiously. “Do you want to have more children?”

You blinked at him, silent for a moment before hesitantly answering, “I think I do. I wanted that baby, Thomas. I wanted it so badly, and now that I know that it was never actually there... I feel like I’m missing something that never existed in the first place. Is that even possible?” You smiled up at him softly, your expressive eyes filled with sadness. “I’d even been thinking of names, Thomas. If we had a girl, I wanted to name her for that little girl, Eloise. If we had a boy, I wanted to name him for my brother.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, using his thumb to brush away a few stray tears that traced the curve of your cheek. “We can still do that, love.”

You sat up and pressed yourself closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as Tommy’s hands settled on your waist. He drank in the features of your face, watching as your eyes observed him closely. “Is it decided then?”

“Is what decided, love?” he asked against the skin of your neck, unable to resist pressing his lips to the soft flesh as he pulled you into his lap to straddle him. 

You sighed contently, your hands ghosting up the back of his head to tangle into his hair. “Another baby. You want another baby?”

“Do you want another baby?” You hummed your affirmative, and he felt the vibrations of it as he dragged his lips along the column of your neck and across your jaw. “Then yeah, love, another baby.”

You pulled away from him slightly, a wide smile your face. ”You mean it? We're actually going to try to have another baby?" You laughed and pressed your lips to his firmly before joking, "At least this one won't be a surprise then."


	38. interlude xv. chasing visions of the future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You opened your mouth to respond, likely to make a clever quip about his own personality as a child based on the many stories you had heard from the others, but you pressed a hand to your mouth as your face paled and sprinted from the room before you could respond.
> 
> Tommy only shook his head, sighed deeply, and turned to Georgie. “You’re mother doesn’t know when to admit that she’s wrong, little one.”

Georgie’s third birthday arrived quicker than either Tommy or you had been prepared for. 

Michael had only told him days prior that he had managed to convince both Arthur and Pol to attend Georgie’s birthday party, and when Tommy had given you the news, you scrambled to ensure that everything would be perfect, that nothing would make relations between the family any worse than they already were. 

The party itself was the largest gathering that you’d hosted at Arrow House since before everything went to shit a year ago, and Tommy was doing his best to help you prepare for all of your expected guests - Arthur, Linda and their boy; Michael and Pol; Finn and Isiah; Charlie and Curly; some of the Lee family whose children had become Georgie’s primary playmates in her cousins’ absence - especially as you had been cursed with awful timing and ended up with your head in the toilet or a waste bin more often than not, emptying the contents of your stomach from dawn to dusk.

He almost wished that you would just reschedule the party, had even voiced as much to you the day before the party, but you were quick to turn him down, reassuring him that you were fine and insisting that it was too late to cancel anything by that point. 

And so the morning of the party, you woke up shortly after Tommy, dry heaved for nearly ten minutes while he dressed and made sure you were okay, and began dressing for the day while he collected Georgie and Charlotte from the nursery with the help of the nanny.

He had already been served his breakfast and had the daily paper open in front of him before you joined him in the dining room. Tommy glanced at you over the top of the paper, taking in your disheveled appearance and pale face. “Are you sure you’ll be okay today, love?” He reached out and took your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your soft skin. “I’m sure the others would understand if we needed to reschedule.”

You shook your head, perking up slightly as Mary placed your breakfast in front of you. “I will be fine. Besides, they’ll be here in a few hours, Thomas. We’re not rescheduling.” You tilted your head towards Georgie on the other side of the table, turning his attention to his oldest daughter as she ate her breakfast with her hands, completely ignoring the utensils provided for her. “Do you really want to be the one to tell Georgie her friends aren’t coming to play with her for her birthday?”

“She’s three. I don’t think she’ll care, love.”

“Are you keen to find out, Thomas?” you shot back, a challenge in your eyes as you stared at him before turning your attention to your breakfast. “She’s a little girl that doesn’t like being told no and doesn’t like having her things taken away.”

“Just like her mother,” he muttered, gaze sliding over the words on the newspaper.

Your fork scraped across the plate, the screeching sound making him let out an annoyed breath as you mentioned, “I heard that, Thomas.”

“I meant for you to hear it, love,” he returned. A quick glance at you reassured him that he hadn’t upset you with his comments. Rather, you looked amused with the banter, trying and failing to bite back a smile as you ate your breakfast.

You shrugged, snorting quietly. “Just means our daughter knows exactly what she wants and won’t take no for an answer. She’s also stubborn.” You paused, looking over at him with a raised brow. You added, “Just like her father.” 

“Just like her mother,” he corrected, folding his paper once he realized that there was no possibility of concentrating on it while you had it in your head to go back and forth like this. He set it on the table and leaned forward, his elbows braced on the surface of the table and his shin rested on his clasped hands. “I didn’t know you when you were that little, but I’d bet money on you having been  _ exactly  _ like she is now.”

You opened your mouth to respond, likely to make a clever quip about his own personality as a child based on the many stories you had heard from the others, but you pressed a hand to your mouth as your face paled and sprinted from the room before you could respond.

Tommy only shook his head, sighed deeply, and turned to Georgie. “You’re mother doesn’t know when to admit that she’s wrong, little one.”

Nearly three hours later, you had mostly recovered from your sickness, though there was always a chance that you were simply pretending to be okay. You were very skilled at doing so, Tommy knew. 

Some of the Lees had arrived only moments earlier, and soon there were five young children running around his home, screaming and giggling and causing general mayhem, but you looked happy, smiling widely as you held Charlotte in your lap and chatted with the other mothers all while keeping a close eye on Georgie and the others. 

Arthur and Linda had been the next to arrive, and although you had greeted Arthur with a big hug and happily took his son from his arms, cooing to him as you took him to the other room where Charlotte was playing noisily on the ground, there was still a heavy tension in the air. Linda trailed after you, looking as displeased as ever, while Tommy stood in the foyer with Arthur, neither quite knowing what to say to one another. 

“How have you been, Arthur?” he finally asked, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

“Good,” he answered hesitantly. “Yeah, good. Got a house in the country, raising chickens. Billy’s happy. Linda’s happy. I’m happy, too, I s’pose.”

Tommy nodded, feeling the tension between them start to melt away. “That’s good. I’m glad you came, Arthur. Really.”

“Well, thank your wife for that, Tommy. She’s very persuasive.”

Tommy smiled. “I’m well aware, brother.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, nodding his head towards the room where the wives had gone. “Let’s get a drink, yeah?”

Arthur nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Yeah, let’s get a drink. It’s a fuckin’ party, right?”

“A birthday party for a three year old, but I s’pose you’re not wrong,” Tommy noted with a chuckle as he led Arthur to where the others were congregated.

Soon the house was filled with friends and family, children running all over the place while the babies played at their mother’s feet - Charlotte was sharing with Billy surprisingly well, and Tommy thought maybe you had been wrong about her being a handful, especially when he compared her to Georgie - and the men were drinking from Tommy’s private stock of whiskey and gin. 

Above all else, you looked happy, extremely so. Your infectious smile was blinding, and he couldn’t help but smile softly each time he glanced over at you as you tried - emphasis on  _ tried  _ \- to make conversation with Linda. Finn had teased him about it no less than three times in the course of ten minutes, telling him he’d gone soft for a woman, and Arthur was quick to voice his agreement with his youngest brother.

(And yeah, he had. So what? He had a beautiful wife who’d given him two beautiful daughters. Had he gone soft for the three most important girls in his life? Absolutely).

Things seemed almost normal again, and then Pol and Michael arrived. 

He could sense the awkward tension the moment that Pol stepped into the room. He watched you greet Michael with a hug before hesitating to hug Pol, but you nonetheless pulled his aunt into your arms, whispering something to her that had her lips straightening into a tight line. 

“I’m here for Georgie,” Pol explained in response to whatever it was you had said to her. “I helped bring the girl into the world, I figured I should be here to celebrate her birthday.”

You nodded slowly, sighing. You masked your disappointment well, surprising Polly with a bright smile that Tommy recognized as the smile you often used to charm donors into issuing a larger cheque than they had anticipated. “That’s good enough for me.”

With all of your expected guests present, the cake was retrieved from the kitchen and after the traditional ‘happy birthday’ had been sung and the three candles that topped the cake had been blown out, gifts started being given to Georgie. 

She’d gotten an array of toys that had him questioning how many different dolls a three year old could possibly need. (The correct answer was infinite dolls, according to his daughter’s delight at receiving no less than four different dolls as gifts).  She also received various cards from those unable to attend with gifts attached - finger paints from Ada, an ornate wooden rocking horse from your aunt and uncle in New York, a little red wagon from John and Esme, and a multitude of teddy bears from Tatiana. 

(The gift from Ada had come with a letter for you and Tommy attached to it, stating her desire to come home for the holidays the following month, and you told him in no uncertain terms that he would be approving any time that his sister requested off from work so that she and Karl could have an extended trip home).

It was completely different from the small celebration from last year, when it had only been Tommy, you, and Georgie, and he was grateful for the family and friends that were willing to put aside their negative feelings for him and you in order to be there for his little girl, his Georgie with his eyes and your smile. 

Georgie seemed to be enjoying herself, and seeing her enjoy herself made the day immensely worth it, even if you had tried to quietly leave the room without drawing attention to yourself twice since the first guests arrived, your hand covering your mouth and your face paling. But Tommy noticed, and each time you disappeared he counted to three hundred in his head, giving you five minutes to handle yourself before he went searching for you. 

You always returned just before he reached three hundred. 

By the time all of the gifts had been opened and the birthday cake eaten, and all other birthday festivities had settled down it was well into the afternoon, and both Charlotte and Billy had been put in the nursery to nap while the older children had settled into a corner to play with Georgie’s new toys. 

The adults were settling in as well, relaxing and enjoying light conversation and card games to make the most of the time they had before the children decided to disturb the peace again or before dinner was served. Tommy had finally occupied the place next to you on the sofa, drinking from a glass of whiskey and smoking his third - fourth? - cigarette of the day while you poured yourself and some of the other women tea from the recently delivered tea tray. Arthur had settled between Linda and Finn on the opposite sofa, puffing on a cigar as he spoke to you about Billy, occasionally interjecting with questions about Charlotte to compare the babies that were only weeks apart in age. Finn, Isiah and some of the other boys had gone out to the stables for impromptu races. The Lee women had started to play cards in the corner of the room. Michael and Polly occupied the armchairs, Michael smoking a cigar that Arthur had passed him and Polly observing everyone with indifference.

Perhaps the biggest surprise of the afternoon had been Linda’s attempt at civility with you, and Tommy was keen to know what had prompted such a change. She’d certainly never held her tongue when it came to you before, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to do so now, especially not after the role you and him had played in Arthur’s arrest a year ago.

And yet, she was civil, discussing the children and home life and your work for the Institute.

Tommy and Arthur shared a brief look after listening to their wives conversation for an extended moment, and even Arthur looked fucking baffled when you both managed to speak more than three sentences to one another without inadvertently - or advertently - insulting one another.

In typical fashion, you proved him wrong and provided an even greater surprise not much later. He’d been listening to Arthur ask Michael about something that had happened a few days prior during dinner at John and Esme’s when Tommy’s attention was grabbed by Polly’s movement at the edge of his peripheral, watching her curiously as she picked up your recently emptied tea cup and gazed into it, a slight furrow to her brows. He forced his attention back to whatever it was that Michael had been saying, but it wasn’t long before his cousin was interrupted. 

“You’re pregnant again,” Pol commented abruptly, her gaze landing on you and flitting down to your still flat stomach before lifting to your face. “But you already know, don’t you?”

“Did you just read that from her fuckin’ tea leaves, Pol?” Arthur questioned incredulously, but Tommy hadn’t heard Pol’s response. His attention was squarely on you.

Tommy blinked in confusion as the others turned their attention to you, looking back and forth between you and Tommy. He pulled the cigarette from his lips as he stared at you, captivated by your movements as your hand pressed softly against your middle, and he waited impatiently to hear what you had to say. 

You met his gaze, biting your lip. “Surprise?” you offered, smiling at him sheepishly.

“I take it your husband didn’t know, then,” Polly quipped, crossing her legs as she leaned back in the chair and lit a cigarette, her uninterested gaze lingering on you and Tommy.

Instead of addressing Polly, you turned full in your seat to face Tommy and took his hand in yours, your smile widening as you looked up at him. “I had my suspicions when I started getting sick. I saw a doctor yesterday afternoon during my lunch. They couldn’t be certain because it’s too early, but they think that pregnancy is logical given the sickness-” You lowered your voice to a whisper so only he could hear. “-and the frequency of intercourse.”

“Why haven’t you told me?” he questioned. 

You reached your free hand up to smooth the pinch of skin between his brows, smiling. “I was gonna tell you after all of this birthday party madness was done with. I just wanted to get through Georgie’s day without you worrying about me instead of having a good time with our friends and family and celebrating our little girl’s birthday.”

He kissed you, first softly on the forehead and then firmly against your lips, delighting in the sound of your laughter as the others started to issue their congratulations and return to their own conversations. “Figures it wouldn’t take long once we decided to have another baby. Not with your determination and stubbornness.”

“Excuse me,” you countered, “I think you mean your determination and stubbornness, Thomas Shelby.” You moved slightly away from him, leaning back against the arm of the sofa and eyeing him with happiness clear in your expressive eyes. “I’m going to see the doctor again in a couple weeks. We’ll know for certain then, but I really do think we’ll be parents again by the beginning of summer.”

“Oi, are you two gonna make eyes at each other for the rest of the evening or celebrate with us?” Arthur teased between puffs of his cigar, and Tommy felt love bloom in his chest as he watched your radiate with happiness at the familiarity of the banter with Arthur. 

You laughed at his brother but conceded nonetheless, reaching for the unused deck of cards in front of you, shuffling and dealing for a game of whist. “Well, Arthur. We have some time before dinner is ready. Care to place any bets to pass the time?”

“Gambling is a vice that God does not approve of, Eleanora,” Linda noted before Arthur could respond, a frown on her face. 

As he drank from his glass of whiskey, Tommy watched you bite back whatever scathing comment you were prepared to throw at the other woman. Instead, you rolled your eyes and simply said, “Yes, so is premarital sex and drinking and drugs and killing and cutting, yet you’re a Shelby, Linda.” You smiled at her despite the underlying hostility of your words, and Tommy placed a hand on your knee, a silent warning to not say anything more that you would later regret. You caught his eye briefly, understanding etched across your face. You sighed. “Besides, it’s nothing serious. If anything, we can gamble to determine who hosts the next playdate for Billy and Charlotte.”

Linda pinched her lips together, her gaze flitting to Arthur before she sighed heavily and responded, “Fine. I suppose that is acceptable.”

“Lovely,” you returned, a false smile curving your lips as you finished dealing before you glanced over at him and a true smile quickly took its place, your elation at being with family once again undeniably clear on your face. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so concludes our series of interludes
> 
> i practically have the next chapter completed but need to tweak a few things and then that'll be posted as well


	39. act xxiv. deal with the devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she continued to hesitate, her gaze flickering back and forth between your face and your outstretched hand, you tsked. “Tick, tock, Miss Eden. This deal does have an expiration.” You nodded towards your hand, issuing a challenge with your hard gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first of many, many parts to cover season 4 events (current outline is at 15 total parts, though there is a good chance that that number will increase as i write everything) so buckle up friends
> 
> ~unedited~

Two days before Christmas, you learned of Thomas’s meeting with Jessie Eden.

Michael had been the one to inform you of it when you arrived at the office later than usual. He made a quip about Thomas being in an irritable mood, mentioning that it was likely because of the Communist woman that had scheduled a meeting with him the day prior, and within thirty minutes you had coaxed all of the details out of Thomas.

He hadn’t been pleased with the woman, noting that she had done her research on him, that she had known all of the names under which he did business, that she had known more about him than he was comfortable with. 

It was admirable, really - a young woman brave enough to stand up to Thomas Shelby despite knowing as much about him as she had alluded to. It was stupid, too, if your opinion meant anything.

You left for lunch that day, asking for Michael’s help in setting up a meeting with her at your office at the Institute before Christmas, and he had been happy to comply. And so shortly before your day had ended on Christmas Eve and it was time to return home to the girls, Jessie Eden knocked on your office door and entered without waiting for you to greet her, a tight smile on her face. 

“Would you like some tea?” you offered as you poured yourself a cup from the steaming tea kettle that had been brought to your office shortly before she arrived. 

“No thank you,” she answered quickly. “I don’t plan to stay long.”

“Suit yourself,” you replied, moving the tea tray from your desk and gesturing towards an empty chair. “Please, make yourself comfortable before we...” You trailed off, a hand flying to your mouth as your stomach churned and bile rose in your throat. You’d hardly had time to drop to your knees and pull the waste bin to your face before you retched, not for the first, second, or even third time that day. 

Nearly two and a half months into your pregnancy, and the morning sickness had not gotten better or worse. It was simply a constant that nagged at you all day, making you unable to keep down food or drink, and only the tea that one of the Lee women had given you was able to soothe your stomach, if only for a short time before the nausea returned.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Shelby?” she asked, her voice laced with concern as she stared down at you.

You didn’t answer her question. “My husband is skilled at many things, Miss Eden,” you commented instead, looking up at her from where you were hunched over the waste bin. “Pulling out is not one of those things. The only consolation I have is that this pregnancy was at least planned, I just never imagined I would be this sick. Certainly wasn’t during any of my previous pregnancies.” Not even the first, you recalled sadly.

If she had been surprised by your blunt words, she did not show it. Instead, she took her seat across from you and stared at you as you wiped your mouth with a handkerchief before settling in your seat again. “I’m surprised Mr. Shelby is allowing you to continue working while pregnant,” she remarked. “He doesn’t seem the type to want his wife to work in the first place.”

“Thomas doesn’t  _ allow  _ me to do anything. He is my husband, not my keeper. I am my own person, and I make my own choices. I’ve worked up to the day I’d gone into labor before, and I’ll do it again if I so choose. Whether you’re willing to believe it or not, my husband does actually respect my choices.” You paused for a moment before adding, “Most of them, anyway.”

“Color me surprised,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked you over. “Why did you request this meeting with me, Mrs. Shelby?”

“You’re young, Miss Eden. Younger than me even, and with that youth comes a certain naivety. Trust me, I know that better than most.” The corners of your lips turned upward, the ghost of a sad smile on your lips briefly before you tightened your mouth into a firm line, lips pursed. “So tell me, what is this revolution of yours really about? Are you not afraid that it is only a matter of time before your naivety causes your little revolution to crumble around you?”

“It’s about giving power to the people, Mrs. Shelby,” she answered. “It’s about using our voices to influence change, and so long as the people want change, the revolution will thrive.”

“Do you know what power is? Do you really?” you questioned, your brows furrowed. “Money is power. Intelligence is power.  _ Power  _ is power, Miss Eden. My husband is both wealthy and intelligent, and he has power over the people of Birmingham in ways that you’ll never understand.” She tried to interject, but you silenced her with a single raised hand. “You will attempt to outplay him, and occasionally you may feel like you have the upper hand, but you will never truly be anything but two steps behind him.”

“Is this why you wanted to meet with me?” she asked, unable to mask the disbelief in your voice. “To warn me against fighting for equal pay in your husband’s factories?”

You blinked at her, your brows shooting up. “No,” you answered, catching her off guard. “I wanted to meet with you to warn you that storming into my husband’s office and demanding equal pay, issuing little threats to blow your whistles and start your strikes, will not work.” A look of surprise crossed her features before it was replaced by smug disinterest once again. “My husband is a traditional man in the sense that, for the most part, he believes women have certain roles in society, believes that women aren’t necessarily entitled to the same things as men. His ideals are outdated, I know, but because of those ideals, there are only two women in his life who he actually respects enough to listen to. One is his aunt, and she would chew you up and spit you out before you even said two words to her.”

She swallowed thickly and sighed, her head tilting slightly to the side as she regarded you with an unreadable expression. “And the other is you?”

You smirked at her. “The other is me, Miss Eden. My husband listens to me, values my opinion. It wasn’t always that way, but I have proved myself to him throughout the years. You, on the other hand, have proven to be nothing but a nuisance to his business, and because Thomas and I are partners in every sense of the word, when you become a nuisance to my husband’s business, you become a nuisance to my business. Prove to me that you can be less of a nuisance, and I will speak to my husband about the discrepancy in pay between the men and women that work in his factories.”

She regarded you for a long moment, unspeaking, before letting out a snort of laughter. “You’re certainly more tactful than your husband when handling business matters, Mrs. Shelby.”

You shrugged. “My husband may be charismatic, but he doesn’t mince words to preserve the feelings of others. Frankly, he doesn’t give a shit if you felt insulted or not, nor will he care in the future. Why do you think he put me in charge of our charitable endeavors? People find me to be a far more pleasant conversationalist than Thomas, and when you’re pleasant to speak with, it is far easier to secure more donations.” You folded your hands together on the desk in front of you, eyeing her with interest. “So do we have a deal, Miss Eden?”

Instead of answering, she asked, “Do you believe in women’s equality?”

“I do,” you answered easily. “I have two daughters and may very well have a third by this time next year. I want nothing more than for them to grow up with more opportunities than I was afforded as a woman.” You leaned back in your chair, trying to ignore the sting of bile in your throat once again. “I know that I am perhaps not a woman that you respect. I married and had children young - there's a good chance that I'll be a mother of three before I even celebrate my twenty-seventh birthday - and you may believe that I only have the position I do because my husband owns the company that I work for. But don’t mistake my circumstance for complacency, Miss Eden. I  _ chose  _ to marry Thomas and have his children. I _chose_ to work for him and his company. I quite enjoy the work that I do, especially for the Institute, and I am very good at it to boot."

"I never said I didn't respect you, Mrs. Shelby," she asserted, though you knew that simply because she hadn't verbalized it didn't mean it was any less true.

You simply rolled your lips before a smile tugged at them, the corners of your mouth twitching upwards. "You didn't need to. I know how young, revolutionary women feel about women like me who so willing subjugate themselves to the status quo and family life and being an accessory to be shown off by their husband. I was first engaged when I was twenty-two, became a mother when I was twenty-three, a wife when I was twenty-four. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't have a family, do you Miss Eden?"

"I do not," she answered, and there was a hint of uncertainty that crossed her features, confusion as to where the conversation was going.

You were done playing with her, so you commented, "There are many differences between us, and yet we are alike in our desire to see woman prosper, to have them on equal footing with their male counterparts." You watched her closely for a reaction, but she surprisingly kept her face clear of any noticeable emotion. "However, beyond our obvious differences in circumstance, there are a few differences that I find problematic, Miss Eden. You see,  I understand the need to influence change from the background, from the shadows - something that you have yet to learn, it would seem. I understand the importance of subtlety, because subtlety can ensure that you don’t make things worse for others in your pursuit of reform." You took a hesitant sip of your tea, hoping the liquid had cooled enough, before adding, "Especially when you decide to go toe to toe with Thomas Shelby,  _ sweetheart _ .” 

The subtle reminder of her recent encounter with Thomas - when he had offered a less than favorable solution to her demand for parity - seemed to humble her a little. She sighed heavily and asked, “If you believe in equality - if you truly want the same thing I and my comrades do - then why issue ultimatums before you’re willing to stand up for the right’s of your women workers? Why treat this as a negotiation if you want to see circumstances improve for women?”

“Because, Miss Eden, this became a negotiation the moment you walked into my husband’s office two days ago and tried to issue threats unless he gave into your demands.” You sipped from your cup of tea, letting the hot liquid soothe your stomach as you stared at her over the rim of the cup. You watched as understanding became clear in her dark eyes, watched as her lips pursed and her chin raised slightly in defiance. “I am willing to be your ally in this, but you must understand that my husband is my ally first and foremost. You’ve already shown your hand, and you’ve been outplayed. Accept the deal, Miss Eden, or I may find a need to negotiate further.” You held your hand out to her, and she eyed it wearily. “Prove to me that you are not a nuisance, that your naivety will not cause further trouble for my husband and I or for his employees, and I will speak with Thomas about raising the wages of the women employed in his factories.”

When she continued to hesitate, her gaze flickering back and forth between your face and your outstretched hand, you tsked. “Tick, tock, Miss Eden. This deal does have an expiration.” You nodded towards your hand, issuing a challenge with your hard gaze.

You returned to Arrow House shortly after you escorted Jessie Eden out of the Institute, speaking in hushed voices about what you had discussed and promising to be in touch with her in the future before you parted ways with the younger woman.

Surprisingly, Thomas was already home when you arrived, and you could hear Georgie’s giggles echoing throughout the house when you hung your coat on the rack and placed your purse on the table in the foyer. You smiled, following the sounds to the dining room where Thomas sat, Charlotte in his arms as she looked around curiously, babbling nonsense and grabbing at his glasses, and Georgie kneeling on her chair beside him, unsurprisingly making a mess of the food on her plate.

You approached your little family, pressing a quick kiss to Thomas’s cheek and a kiss to Georgie’s forehead before taking Charlotte in your arms and sitting at your usual seat at the table. “How was your afternoon?” you asked Thomas idly as you made faces at Charlotte, reveling in the little giggles she responded with. “I’m surprised you’re home already.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he replied curtly. “Didn’t have any meetings scheduled this afternoon, so I came home to spend time with the girls.” His haunting eyes met yours, curiosity clear in those blue depths. “Did you have a productive afternoon? Everything went as you had planned?”

You smirked at him gleefully. “You could say that.”

“We’ll need to be careful when it comes to Jessie Eden. She’s tenacious, determined. I imagine she’s a lot like you would have been if we hadn’t met all those years ago, if you hadn’t settled into family life.”

You hummed your agreement noncommittally, wondering at the truth of his statement.

Your conversation quickly turned from work to the girls, and before long dinner had been served and you were discussing plans for the swiftly approaching holiday. He reached into his suit jacket mid-meal and pulled out an envelope with nothing but yours and Thomas’s names written across the front, passing it to you.

“What is this?” you asked, looking it over curiously.

Between bites of his meal, Thomas answered, “According to Michael, it’s an olive branch from John. Wasn’t sure if Esme knows about it, though.”

Your eyes widened and your lips curved upwards into a grin. “Really?” you asked, not quite believing that after a year of shutting you and Thomas out they’d be willing to allow you back into their lives.

Thomas nodded, a small smile on his face and his gaze soft as he looked at you. “Open it. Michael didn’t tell me what it was for, but he made it seem like it was some kind of invite.”

You tore through the paper envelope like a wild animal, strips of paper littering the table around you. Your smile grew wider as you read the invitation, feeling happy tears beginning to well in your eyes. “New Years Eve,” you whispered. You wiped at your eyes, adding, “They’ve invited us to a New Years Eve party that they’re hosting. It’s not Christmas, but it’s something.”

“It’s something,” Thomas agreed. “How do you feel, love?”

“Ecstatic,” you told him. “I’ve missed them, but I wanted to respect them, not push them and risk losing them forever. I can’t wait to see all of them again. Do you think Esme’s expecting again?” Knowing their penchant for sex and their love of their children, you wouldn’t be surprised if they were adding to their family again. Your eyes widened, and you asked, “Do you think they know that we’re expecting again?”

Thomas chuckled, clearly amused to see you so excited at the prospect of seeing John and Esme after a year of absolutely no communication with them. “I’m sure someone has told them. Think Georgie will recognize them?”

You blinked, not having thought of that. “I’m not sure. It’s been so long since she’s seen them. And Charlotte hasn’t met any of them. Granted, she’s only ten months old, but still.” You turned to Georgie, doing your best to bit back a laugh when you saw the growing mess of food around her plate and face. “Little one, do you want to go see your cousins next week? And Uncle John and Aunt Esme?”

She blinked at you with her big, haunting eyes, head tilted slightly as she thought it over. Finally, she shouted an affirmative and smiled widely before diving her hand back into the food on her plate. 

“We’ll need to work on her table manners,” you commented to Thomas, glancing at him briefly from the corner of your eye before your gaze landed back on Georgie. “I think it’s time you had a bath, little one. You’ve got more food on your face than in your belly at this point.” 

You called for the nanny, ignoring as Georgie objected, “No, Mummy! Don’t wanna bath!” You kept your eyes firmly on Thomas, sharing a look as she was dragged kicking and screaming from the dining room while Charlotte simply watched in quiet observation from her highchair, and you were grateful to go one evening with only one screaming child. 

Before long, the nanny had returned to collect Charlotte for her bath, mumbling under her breath about wild children and soaked floors. You smiled and met Thomas’s haunting eyes, watching with interest as he licked his lip before biting it gently to keep from laughing at the poor nanny.

Mary returned to the room shortly after, the daily mail delivery in hand. Thomas discussed Christmas dinner with her, announcing that you would be hosting the Lees as well as some of the Shelby family and voicing the need for a larger dinner to be prepared, all of which was news to you. You eyed him from the corner of your eye, a brow raised, as you sorted through the mail that the housekeeper had deposited in front of you.

There had been numerous Christmas cards, a few letters from past donors, and even a late birthday card for Georgie, but there was one card with a New York return address that had you stumped. “Thomas,” you began, interrupting his conversation with Mary, “didn’t we already get a Christmas card from my aunt and uncle?”

“Don’t ask me, love,” he responded tersely, not bothering to look over at you. “You’re the one that keeps track of that stuff.”

You rolled your eyes at him and opened the envelope, trying to recall if the card you received from your aunt and uncle had been for Georgie’s birthday or if it had been for Christmas. Your question was swiftly answered as you opened the card, not even bothering to read the note that was written within it as your attention was drawn elsewhere on the card. 

_“La mano nera,”_ you breathed, unable to stop your hands from trembling as you tossed the card onto the table. _“La mano nera,_ Thomas.”

He looked up at you in confusion. You had hardly spoken Italian in his presence in seven years, and he had clearly been startled by your sudden use of the language. “Nora? Love, what is it?”

You nodded towards the card, your eyes wide with fear. You pressed your trembling hands to your still flat stomach protectively as you repeated, _“La mano nera.”_

He picked up the card and read the note that was scrawled opposite the handprint that had you struggling to breath. “Fuck,” he muttered, his haunting gaze locking onto yours.

“You understand what that means, right?” you asked him. “It’s a threat, Thomas. It’s a fucking threat against our family. And not just us and the girls, everyone.”

He nodded solemnly, rolling his lips before he sighed and spoke words that had sent a chill down your spine, multiplying your fear tenfold. “It’s from Luca Changretta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: i never understood why mary was no longer the housekeeper at arrow house after season 3, and i don't recall the show explaining it (though i might be wrong?). for the purpose of continuity in this, i've kept mary as the housekeeper, and frances has become georgie and charlotte's nanny.


	40. act xxv. a storm on the horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thomas,” you breathed his name softly, hoping that he wouldn’t snap at you. You needed to hear his reassurances, his promises that nothing would happen to your girls. “Will they hurt our girls?” Pressure began to build behind your eyes, and they stung with unshed tears. “Will they hurt our Georgie and Charlotte?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited

Your mind was still reeling from the threat issued, your gaze lingering on the card that you’d long since discarded on the table.  _ La mano nera. _ “We need to warn everyone, Thomas,” you whispered behind the hand that covered your mouth. You repeated yourself, louder this time, “We need to warn them.”

“I know.”

“We’ll need to call Arthur and Linda, call Pol and Michael. I’ll try to get through to John and Esme, but as of last week they still weren’t taking my calls. Maybe if John picks up I can speak with him,” you rambled, doing your best to stop the trembling in your hands. “Ada and Karl should be here first thing in the morning, too. She’s staying with Pol tonight, but I convinced her to stay here after tomorrow so Georgie and Karl can spend some time together before they go back to America. We’ll need to have everyone-”

“I fuckin’ know, Nora!” he barked. “Please, love, shut your fuckin’ mouth for two minutes so I can think.”

You begrudgingly quieted, trying to ignore the rampant thoughts in your mind, the thoughts that told you it was your fault, you had pulled the trigger, it was your fault, everyone would pay for your actions, it was all your fault. In the midst of those thoughts, you felt as if your heart had stopped. 

Would they hurt your girls, your babies? Would your daughters pay the price for your crimes against the Changretta family? 

“Thomas,” you breathed his name softly, hoping that he wouldn’t snap at you. You needed to hear his reassurances, his promises that nothing would happen to your girls. “Will they hurt our girls?” Pressure began to build behind your eyes, and they stung with unshed tears. “Will they hurt our Georgie and Charlotte?”

The distress that you’d seen on his face from the moment he saw the black hand increased as his haunting eyes snapped to yours. He stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor as he moved around it to take a knee in front of you. He tenderly brushed his thumb over your face, his touch soothing you. “I won’t let those bastards hurt our girls, Nora. Never. I swear it. I’ll kill every last man that tries to hurt our girls.”

You nodded and sucked your trembling lower lip between your teeth, worrying it anxiously. Thomas’s thumb was quick to drag the pink flesh away from your teeth, and your breath caught in your throat when his other hand pressed against your still flat stomach. “What are we going to do, Thomas?”

He hesitated briefly, uncertainty flashing in his haunting eyes. “I, uh,” he trailed off, blinking as he ran a hand over his face and sighed. “I’ll make a call to Moss. See what he might know about Changretta, see if he can find out any information on how many men he might have with him.” He took your face between his hands, and you sighed at his touch. “I need you to call ‘round to John and Arthur and Michael. Make sure they check their post if they haven’t already. Let them know I’m callin’ a family meeting on Boxing Day at Charlie’s yard. It won’t do us any good to stay isolated out here in the country.”

Understanding settled deep within you as you nodded. “We’re going back to Small Health.”

“Yeah, love. Back to Small Heath.” You watched him swallow thickly, gaze rising to the ceiling as he took a deep breath. He looked at you again, a steely determination replacing the uncertainty in his eyes, and added, “We won’t make this easy on Changretta. He’ll think twice before doing anything when most of the men in the area are loyal to us, loyal to the Peaky Blinders.”

You let out a deep breath, trying and failing to relax. “I’m going to check on the girls,” you informed him, standing on shaky legs with a little help from Thomas. Maybe a distraction would help to calm your rising anxieties. “I’ll go make sure Georgie isn’t giving Frances too much trouble, and I’ll make sure Charlotte’s all settled for the evening. Should I bring Georgie down to set out treats for Santa before she goes to bed?”

“Bring her down,” Thomas confirmed. “We don’t need to disrupt Christmas because of this. We’ll spend the day with friends and family tomorrow, and then we’ll deal with this. Together. All of us.”

You left Thomas to phone Moss, to gather as much information on the newest threat to your family as possible, while you climbed the stairs to the girl’s nursery, your heart pounding in your chest, louder and louder and louder with every step you took. 

Would you ever get a break from the threats and the danger and the anxiety that had become so commonplace in your life since you gave your heart to Thomas Shelby seven years ago? Would your daughters be able to grow up without constantly needing to be tailed by some of the Peaky boys for their safety or without always looking over their shoulders for the next threat to their wellbeing, to their lives?

Your fears and worries were momentarily forgotten when you stepped inside of the nursery to find Georgie already dressed in her nightgown for the evening and her dark curls still damp from her bath, curled up in her bed with a picture book, flipping through the pages aimlessly and lingering on some pages longer than others. Frances gently rocked Charlotte in her arms, the little girl’s eyes fluttering shut, open and shut, open and shut before a peaceful expression settled on her face, finally asleep. 

“Did they give you much trouble tonight?” you asked quietly, not wanting to wake Charlotte and not wanting to disturb Georgie in the off chance that she would forget to use her inside voice and wake her little sister.

“Not at all, Mrs. Shelby. Charlotte’s never too much trouble-”

“That’s shocking,” you muttered, a soft smile curling your lips as you gazed at your sleeping daughter.

“-and Georgie settled fairly quickly after all of the bath business was done.”

You smiled at the nanny, glad for her help. “That’s good. I think I’ll take Georgie off of your hands for the evening, so feel free to take some extra time for yourself tonight once you’ve got Charlotte settled.” You turned your gaze on Georgie, surprised to find her staring up at you with her haunting eyes silently. “I’ll get Georgie to bed later this evening myself. We still have to put treats out for Santa, little one.”

“Santa?” she cried happily, loudly, and before you had time to shush the little girl, Charlotte had been startled awake and was howling like a banshee from the disturbance. 

You glanced at Mary, an apologetic smile on your face. “I’m sorry..” Turning back to Georgie, you held a hand out to her. “Come, little one. We’ll go downstairs, and Daddy will help you set the treats out for Santa while Frances gets your sister back to sleep.”

Georgie was a bundle of energy as she hopped down the stairs, pulling you along with her excitedly. Seeing her so happy had done wonders, helping ease your worries, and watching as she spoke softly with Thomas about what she hoped Santa would bring her - in exchange for the treats, of course, as if it were a transaction. She was a businesswoman in the making, even at only three years old, and you had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from making a quip about her being just like her father to Thomas.

As soon as the treats for Santa had been placed near the tree and Georgie pressed a goodnight kiss to Thomas’s cheek, you took her little hand in yours and returned her to bed, pressing a finger to your lips - a gesture which she adorably mirrored, making you smile widely - before entering the nursery and tucking her in for the night. You read from her (currently) favorite book, the words whispered so as to not wake Charlotte, and as soon as Georgie’s eyes had fluttered shut, you pressed a kiss to her cheek and slipped from the room, softly closing the door behind you.

You returned to Thomas’s office, surprised to see that he wasn’t sat behind his desk like usual, to make your calls - first to Michael, then Arthur. Linda had picked up and was brash as always, but she quickly called for Arthur when she heard the urgency in your tone. And just as you and Thomas had speculated, Arthur had received the same card from Luca Changretta. 

“Have you spoken to John?” you asked, worry gnawing at you. “I haven’t called him yet, but if Esme’s the one to take the call she’ll hang up before I get the chance to tell him what’s happened.”

“He called. He got the same thing in the post today. Ada knows as well.” He went silent for a moment, and all you could hear through the receiver was his exasperated breathing. “What the fuck are we supposed to do, Nora?”

“Pack your things first thing in the morning, and bring your family here. We’ll all be together on Christmas, we’ll be stronger. After that, we’re going home, Arthur.”

“Home?”

“Back to Small Heath. Thomas wants us in Birmingham, where the people are loyal to us and we have the numbers to deal with Changretta,” you explained, rubbing at the growing ache in your temple. “Just get here as soon as you can tomorrow, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I can do that. What should I tell Linda if she doesn’t want to go back to Small Heath?”

“Tell her to get her fucking head out of her ass,” you told him, though you knew that he wasn’t likely to do anything of the sort. “This isn’t a fucking small time gang that’ll be intimidated by who we are, Arthur. It’s the fucking mafia, and they’ll kill anyone named Shelby - men, women, and children. The Italians don’t fuck around.”

“You’re familiar with this, aren’t you?” You could hear the curiosity in Arthur’s voice, could hear the question that he didn’t want to just come out and ask.

You took a deep breath and nodded despite knowing he couldn’t see your gesture. “Yes, I’m familiar with it.” You paused for a moment, sighed deeply before revealing, “There’s a reason why my father had us immigrate back to England after my mother died rather than staying in America with her family.” Your vagueness had done the trick in deterring Arthur from asking further questions, and after quickly explaining Thomas’s plan to hold a family meeting on Boxing Day, you were ending the call and having the operator place another call, this time to John and Esme.

It took three attempts before someone finally picked up, though you couldn’t blame them given the early hour of the morning.

As expected, you had barely managed two words before Esme had hung up on you, unwilling to hear you out. You could only hope that Arthur would manage to talk John into hearing you out, and that John would manage to convince Esme that they were stronger together, with the rest of the Shelby family, as a united front against Changretta.

Your worries for your estranged family increased the longer you were left to think on it, and it led you to place call after call, hoping that eventually John would be the one to pick up. It was well after midnight when you finally heard John’s voice for the first time in over a year.

“For fuck’s sake, what do you want?”

“John,” you whispered, a flood of emotions rolling over you at the sound of his voice. “It’s me.”

“Nora?” He was unable to keep the surprise from his voice, but he quickly recovered, lowering his voice to a whisper as he said, “Whatever it is, make it quick. Esme’s asleep in the other room, but if she wakes up and finds me speaking to you, she’ll-”

“I know, John, but this is important. Arthur said you’ve spoken to him?”

“Yeah, we’ve talked. Little ironic that your actions are what’s got us all in danger again, yeah?” he asked, though there was less bite to his tone than you assumed he had intended. If anything, he just sounded exhausted with it all. “Why are you callin’, Nora?”

“Thomas is calling a family meeting. Boxing Day at Charlie’s yard. We’re going back to Small Health, John. To deal with Changretta as a united front, as a family.”

“I think we’ll take our chances out here. You’re mad if you think I’m convincing Esme to come back to the family. She thinks we don’t need you and Thomas anymore, don't need anyone but ourselves, and I’m inclined to agree. We can handle this on our own.”

You could feel the beginnings of a headache behind your eyes and the familiar rolling of your stomach, but you pushed the feelings aside and raised your voice, a little indignant that John would dismiss the threat so readily. “This is bigger than us, John. Bigger than whatever fucking problems you and Esme still have with me and Thomas. I know how the mafia works, John, better than any of you. We’re stronger together. You know that. Esme knows that. We all fucking know that. How are you going to defend yourself, your wife, and your children from the men that they’ll send after you? My best guess would be that Changretta traveled with no less than ten men, and they'll have a fucking arsenal, John. You can't take that on alone.” 

He didn’t answer. For a moment you were worried that he had simply walked away from the phone, but then you heard him sigh. 

“John, please.” You took a deep breath, your attempt at calming your stomach failed. You busied yourself with pouring yourself a cup of tea from the tea tray, the once steaming liquid long since gone cold, hoping that it would be just as effective as when it was hot. “If you and Esme truly want to keep your distance from us after this is all over, I won’t stop you, but please just come to Charlie’s Yard on Boxing Day. Please, John.”

“I need to go, Nora,” he whispered. “Esme’s waking up. I need to go. But…” He trailed off, and you held your breath. “We’ll be there. Merry Christmas.”

There was a click as the call disconnected, and you let out a relieved breath, relaxing back into Thomas’s chair behind the desk. You sat there for a long moment, sipping from the tea and tracing small circles over your stomach, and once the cold tea was no longer needed to calm your stomach, you randomly grabbed a book from the closest shelf and began reading. You felt yourself begin to doze as you read the biography of some long dead man whose name you didn’t even recognize, the time ticking by slowly into the hours of the early morning. 

You were startled from your reading when Thomas stalked into the office, the door banging against the wall from the force he’d used to open it. Your eyes went wide and you stood abruptly, your hand automatically covering your stomach protectively as you took in his appearance - the blood on his face, the blood on his hands, the blood staining his clothes. “My God, Thomas!” you exclaimed, a hand clapping over your mouth in horror. “Are you okay? Where are you hurt?” You approached him cautiously, looking him over for any obvious wounds. “How are you even fucking conscious right now? There’s so much blood.”

“It’s not my blood,” he answered shortly, anger clear in his haunting eyes.

Your brows drew together in confusion. “Then who-”

“Some of it is animal blood, some of it is Antonio’s.”

“Antonio?” He had cleared up exactly none of your confusion with his short answer. “Who the hell is Antonio?”

“The sous chef that was brought into our home by the chef that you hired, love.” There was an accusation in his tone, and the anger in his haunting eyes grew to full blown rage, his pupils blown and his eyes becoming two dark pools that shone with your reflection as he looked at you.

“What? I didn’t know that-”

He gripped your chin roughly, successfully halting your words before they could be spoken. “No more fuckin’ Italians in my house! Do you understand, Nora? No more fuckin’ Italians! If you can’t handle the hiring of our fuckin’ staff, I’ll have Mary take care of it.”

Anger bloomed in your chest, setting your insides on fire. “Thomas Shelby, look at me. Fucking look at me, Thomas.” You slapped the hand gripping your chin away from your face, wrapping your hand around his wrist and tugging him towards you. You didn’t have the strength to physically move him, but the action did manage to catch his attention. “I understand your distrust of Italians,  _ especially  _ now. But don’t you dare fucking forget that your wife’s mother -  _ my mother, _ Thomas - was Italian. I don’t disrespect your heritage, so don’t fucking disrespect mine.” 

A flash of remorse crossed his features before it was replaced with his typical indifference and calm intimidation, though you knew that he had been thoroughly scolded. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up before Georgie crawls out of bed and sees you like this. We don’t need to give her any more reasons to have nightmares.”

“I need to make a few calls first,” he countered, pushing past you to get to the phone on his desk. “Changretta is planning to move against us today, Nora. He sent an assassin here with Darby Sabini’s help. We need everyone in Small Heath today, the earlier the better.” He turned from you to speak with the operator, directing his call to Arthur. He glanced at you over his shoulder, issuing his orders, “Go pack some bags, gather the girls, and get ready to leave. I’ll phone the boys, pack up the presents, and get cleaned up. After that, we’re leaving.”

After doing as you had been told, you waited for him in the drawing room, your luggage at your feet, Charlotte asleep against your chest and Georgie rubbing her eyes sleeping as she struggled to stay awake next to you. By the time Thomas appeared before you, clean of blood and in a fresh suit with his hair still damp and trickles of water on his face, Charlotte was beginning to stir restlessly and Georgie had fallen asleep against your side. 

“Did you manage to reach the boys?” you asked, a sliver of hope in your that he’d actually managed to succeed in convincing John to come right away.

“Just Arthur and Michael. Arthur’ll meet us in Small Heath with Linda and Billy, and Michael’s gonna speak with Pol and Ada before goin’ out to John and Esme’s to round ‘em all up and bring them home.” You could see the distress clear on his face, the worry that maybe, just maybe he’d be too late, that maybe Changretta was already two steps ahead of them all. 

Thomas crouched down in front of you, picking up Georgie gently, trying not to wake her. It was in vain, for the moment that he had lifted her into his arms she blinked awake and rubbed her eyes, trying to hide her face in the crook of his neck as she asked, “Did Santa come, Daddy? Did he eat the treats?”

Your gazes locked on one another, his haunting eyes boring into you. Slowly, he nodded and turned his head to look at Georgie. “Aye, little one. Santa’s come, but we need to take a drive before we can open presents. Can you be patient, Georgie?”

She nodded sleepily, though you weren’t sure if she fully understood what he was asking.

Thomas leaned down to gather some of the luggage at your feet in one hand, doing his best not to jostle Georgie, and you stood, adjusting Charlotte on your hip before grabbing what Thomas could not. 

It took a moment to make sure that everything had been gathered and that Charlotte and Georgie were comfortable in the car, a blanket wrapped around them to keep them warm despite the December chill outside, but as soon as you were both sure that you were prepared to leave, Thomas opened the door for you and helped you climb into the front seat with him.

Thomas reached for your hand as the car rattled down the drive. “It’ll all be okay, love. We’ll go home to Small Heath, and we'll deal with this together, as a family. I promise. I promise I’ll do whatever needs to be done to keep our family safe - you, our girls, and the baby. I promise, Nora.” His fingers swept over your knuckles, and he looked at your from the corner of his eyes as he repeated, "I promise."

The words you had said so often in response to his promises - _‘don’t make promises you can’t keep’_ \- were on the tip of your tongue, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to say them, couldn’t bring yourself to dash what little optimism there was left, couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you were absolutely terrified that he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise this time. Instead, you smiled at him and said, “I know, Thomas.”

You could deal with your fears later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so lemme just say, i'm struggling with deciding what comes next when it comes to a ~certain~ character


	41. act xxvi. can’t hide from death (but you can try)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He blinked and looked up at you, anger and grief and disbelief shining in his haunting eyes. “John,” he whispered, and you felt your heart splintering into tiny pieces that scattered around your feet before he even said those words that had you thinking maybe you really had fallen asleep, that this was all one big nightmare that you desperately wanted to wake up from. “They got to John, Nora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here it is. i don't quite know how i feel about this part, honestly.

Your fear ate at you, choking you until it was almost impossible to breath, to think, to feel, but Thomas, as always was your salvation, even if that salvation was only temporary.

You and Thomas had only just gotten the girls settled in the house in Small Heath, both Charlotte and Georgie quickly falling asleep once again as the sun began to rise despite Georgie’s insistence that presents be open as soon as you arrived at your destination. 

You had tried to sleep, too, but the unease that had rapidly spread throughout your entire body had made it impossible. Instead of sleeping, you curled against Thomas’s side in the bed as he stared up at the ceiling, sharing your inability to sleep, a cigarette between his lips and an arm around your waist to keep you as close to him as humanly possible. 

You sat in silence, enjoying the quiet and each other’s gentle touch and company. Before long, the gentle touches and soft kisses to exposed skin turned heated, and you were rolled beneath Thomas as soon as he had stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed, pressing his lips against yours heatedly, tasting the tobacco on his tongue.

The typically intimate touches and kisses were tainted with desperation and uneasiness, the reality of the situation affecting you both in various measures. Thomas was more urgent, wanting to be as close to you as possible and tracing the curves and lines and edges of your body as if trying to commit them to memory. You were more hesitant, your fear causing your hands to tremble as your nails dragged down his back and your fingers twisted into his hair while you arched into him, pressing your body to his as tightly as you could manage. 

No words were said, but everything that needed to be said was communicated through the kisses you shared. His lips trailed gently up and down the column of your throat; pressed to the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear; slanted over your mouth to swallow your pleased cries and whimpers. Your lips brushed over his cheekbones, feeling his eyelashes flutter against your own cheeks; ghosted over his jawline, listening to the way he sighed at your touch; pressed firmly again his lips to muffle the little noise you emitted as his movements above you pushed you closer and closer to the edge, as you tumbled over it and dragged Thomas with you.

It felt like hours had passed after you and Thomas had redressed and tried to sleep, if only for a moment, but in reality it had likely been no more than forty minutes before Georgie was awake once again and climbing into bed with you, begging and begging and begging to open the presents that Santa brought her. 

Less than ten minutes later, you found yourself curled up on the sofa with a barely awake Charlotte sitting in your lap as Thomas handed gifts to Georgie from the bag he had stuffed them into, softly apologizing to the little girl for not having a tree to put them under in your temporary home. 

You’d only made it halfway through opening gifts when the phone rang, confusing both you and Thomas. You pulled Georgie into your arms then, needing to hold both of your children to keep the fear from overwhelming you, and you tried your hardest to listen to what Thomas was saying in the other room.

You hadn’t heard a thing, but when Thomas returned to the room, blinking in disbelief and running a hand over his face, a myriad of emotions clear on his face rather than his usual indifference, you felt like your heart had dropped into your stomach, and you had to fight back a surge of nausea.

“Thomas,” you breathed, needing him to speak, to say anything. It wasn’t often that your husband showed his emotions so openly, and most cases when you saw those emotions, it was love or anger or adoration or irritation. Never sadness, never like this. “Thomas, talk to me. What’s happened?”

He blinked and looked up at you, anger and grief and disbelief shining in his haunting eyes. “John,” he whispered, and you felt your heart splintering into tiny pieces that scattered around your feet before he even said those words that had you thinking maybe you really had fallen asleep, that this was all one big nightmare that you desperately wanted to wake up from. “They got to John, Nora.”

“And he’s…” you trailed off, unable to vocalize the question. Part of you already knew the answer just by looking at the expression on Thomas’s face. “No,” you whispered, tears springing to your eyes. “No. Thomas, please tell me that he’s not…”

Thomas said nothing. Instead, he sat beside you and pulled you into his arms, holding you and Georgie and Charlotte closely as you cried. The only sounds that filled the room were your crying and Charlotte’s babbling, soon joined by Georgie’s chatter as she grew fidgety, slinking from your hold and towards her toys on the floor. 

You felt the familiar feeling of guilt settle deep within the pit of your stomach, felt nausea wash over you as you realized that none of this would be happening if you hadn’t killed Changretta, felt your tears grow heavier and thicker as you buried your face in Thomas’s shoulder, your body shaking from the force of your sobs.

“It’s my fault,” you breathed against his shoulder. “It’s all my fault, Thomas. None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for me. I’m so sorry. So sorry, Thomas. It’s all my fault. All my-”

You were interrupted when Thomas pulled away slightly, taking your face between his hands. “It’s not your fault, love,” he reassured. “None of this is your fault. Vicente Changretta put this in motion when you took a bullet for me, when we nearly lost Charlotte. Do you understand? This is not your fault.” He held you closely for a while longer, whispering reassurance into your ear and wiping away your stray tears, and yet you still felt guilty.

You’d joined Ada with the children after your tears had dried and you assured Thomas that you knew John’s death hadn’t been your fault - a slight lie, but he seemed to believe you - though your husband hadn’t joined you. Instead, he’d gone to see Michael, hoping that the younger man was out of surgery and could give him more details about what had happened that led to his brother’s death before he met Arthur at the morgue. Esme certainly wouldn’t be telling him anything since that entailed being in the same room as Thomas for more than two minutes, so Michael was the only one who would have the answers he sought.

You could tell Ada had spent time crying if her bloodshot and swollen eyes were anything to go by. If her appearance hadn’t been telling enough, there was a handful of crumpled tissues littering the table where she sat, her gaze vacant. 

You took a seat next to her after checking on the children in the other room, and, after sitting in silence for a long moment, you couldn’t help but comment, “He was the best of them, wasn’t he?”

You caught sight of her lower lip trembling as she nodded solemnly. “He was a good brother. Good father, too. Good husband. He was just  _ good, _ Nora. Not like the other’s.”

You knew that beneath all the layers of past trauma and behind the thick walls that Thomas had built around his heart, he was good, too, but you understood what Ada was trying to say. “He was a good friend, too. If it hadn’t been for John, I never would have met you all. Probably never would have set foot in the Garrison, and what a shame that would’ve been.”

“He loved you, y’know. Back then,” Ada stated bluntly, staring down at her hands as fresh tears sprang from her eyes. She dabbed at them with a tissue. “He was absolutely fucking irate when he found out that Tommy had been carrying on with you.” She laughed and recalled, “Even hit Tommy after the first time he found you in bed with him after a night at the Garrison. He’d thought Tommy had walked you back to your uncle’s, so you can imagine how surprised he’d been when he went to speak with Tommy the following morning to find the two of you naked in bed and wrapped around one another.”

You laughed through your fresh tears, remembering the day as if seven years didn’t separate then and now. You remembered the way you’d woken up after spending the night in the Shelby flat for the first time, still groggy from sleep and fumbling to keep yourself covered with the sheets as Thomas ordered John out of the room. You remembered the way John had looked at you when you appeared downstairs dressed in the same dress you’d worn to the Garrison the night before, his typical aloofness replaced with a sadness that you hadn’t been able to place then. You remembered the way that Thomas had a split lip when you saw him later that night after he took a seat next to you at the bar, how you’d dragged your thumb gently across the pink flesh before kissing him softly, not caring that you were still in the company of the others and hardly noticing how John had averted his gaze from the display of affection between you and his older brother. 

“I loved him, too. Just not the way he wanted me to back then.” You smiled sadly at Ada, reaching for her hand across the table. “It all worked out in the end, though. Him and Esme were good for each other, and Thomas and I… We may not have been good for each other back then, but I’ve never loved anyone the way I love Thomas.” 

“I know,” Ada murmured, her hands curling around her still full cup of tea. “John knew, too. Eventually. I think it just took him a little longer to come to terms with the fact that the girl he’d been sweet on had chosen his older brother over him.” She sighed deeply, and for a moment the only sounds in the room were yours and Ada’s sniffles. “Y’know, he was your biggest champion when Tommy had his head up his ass and wasn’t treating you how you should’ve been treated.” After a moment, she added belatedly, “Aside from me, of course.”

“I can’t believe he’s gone, Ada,” you whispered sadly. “It just...It doesn’t feel real.”

“It doesn’t,” she agreed, blinking away more tears before her sadness quickly turned to anger, her knuckles going white as her grip on the cup of tea tightened. “Why now? It’s been over a fucking year since all of that business with Changretta. So why now? Why did Luca Changretta wait over a fucking year to come after us?”

You shrugged and hung your head. “I don’t know. My best guess is that someone told him we’d...that the family was split up, that we weren’t speaking to one another. Thomas said Sabini helped Changretta facilitate the hiring of the assassin that was planted in our household. Wouldn’t surprise me if Sabini had been feeding him information about us this entire time.”

“You think he knew I was coming home, that we’d all be in Birmingham so they could pick us off one by one?”

“It’s possible,” you answered. “Thomas and I spoke of you often, especially once we knew you’d be coming home for the holidays. Sabini’s man could’ve overheard us.” You started to fidget, bouncing your leg and nervously picking at the skin around your nails. “I’m sorry, Ada.”

She turned to you, a confused look on her face as her brows knit together and her eyes narrowed. “What do you have to be sorry about, Nora?”

“I pulled the trigger,” you breathed, feeling the same sense of guilt you felt over a year ago beginning to rise again, and you looked away, staring at your hands as the skin around your nails began to bleed. “I’m the one that killed Changretta, and now his son is here to kill us all. We wouldn’t be in the mess if I hadn’t pulled the trigger. John wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t pulled the trigger.”

Ada squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to her. “If it hadn’t been you, it would have been John or Arthur or Tommy that pulled the trigger. We’d be in this situation regardless of who pulled the trigger, and honestly, Nora, I’m glad it was you that pulled the trigger.”

She had caught you off guard, and at first you thought you had heard her wrong. You blinked in confusion and asked her to clarify with a simple, “What now?”

“I’m glad you were the one to pull the trigger, because knowing Tommy, he’s going to be even more determined to put an end to this because you’re especially in danger. That man will lose sleep over this, wanting to never take his eyes off of you until he knows that you and those little girls are safe and the threat is over.” You opened your mouth to argue, to say that Thomas would have the same determination no matter who had pulled the trigger, but she silenced you with a single look. “Y’know I’m right, Nora. If it had been him or John or Arthur to pull the trigger, he would make sure that the threat is dealt with, but knowing that it was you that pulled the trigger, you that Changretta will truly be after, he’ll rally the whole of fucking Birmingham if he has to in order to protect you.”

“Maybe,” you said noncommittally. You knew that Thomas had always been incredibly protective of you, moreso after you’d given birth to Georgie and become the mother of his child, but you still had trouble believing that Thomas would be any less determined to stop Changretta before anyone else got hurt or killed if it hadn’t been your actions that were the catalyst for all of this. 

“You know I’m right, especially now that you’re pregnant again.” She gave you a pointed look, her gaze flitting down towards your stomach. “Luca Changretta has no idea who he’s fucking with.”

“I just worry that he’ll put my safety over his,” you admitted, feeling your fear creep up on you until it was almost overwhelming. “I worry that, if it comes down to it, he’ll bargain his life away for mine, and I couldn’t live with myself if he did something stupid like that, Ada.”

Ada gave your hand another reassuring squeeze, telling you, “Have faith in Tommy.”

You nodded resolutely. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise i'm not an awful person, stay tuned
> 
> i'm gonna be trying out a new schedule with updates on mondays and thursdays


	42. act xxvii. nothing's as it should be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a somber affair, the funeral. Gathered with the rest of the Shelby family - save for Michael, still recovering in the hospital from his own injuries he’d received in the attack - and some of the Peaky Blinders and Lee family, you stood around the vardo that held John’s body, curtains drawn and hiding the inside from prying eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~unedited~

The days that followed that Christmas morning phone call felt gray, devoid of all color and feeling. The family functioned as if on autopilot, trying to stay afloat in the midst of the loss of John. Pol was drunk most of the time that she wasn't with Michael, still refusing to speak to you or Thomas. Ada cried more often than not, a pile of tissues never far from her. Thomas locked himself away in his office, hiding from his grief, from you, from the world. Arthur and Linda kept to themselves.

You silently dealt with your own grief, smiling through the day and pretending that your hurt wasn’t suffocating you, that your grief was intensifying so profoundly that you couldn’t even hear yourself think any more. Rather than outwardly struggle, you went about your days with a stoicism that could have rivaled Thomas’s. 

During the day, you went about your business, pouring over balance sheets and donor statements and other various documents that would have been Michael’s responsibility if not for his current condition. In the evenings, you’d return home to the girls, holding them close to you and savoring their warmth, their liveliness, their youthful oblivion, hoping that you could somehow melt away your struggles the longer you held them. During the nights, Thomas would return home from the office, long after you and the girls had had dinner and they’d been settled in their beds. You always watched from the doorway of their temporary bedroom as he pressed kisses to their foreheads, careful not to wake them. He’d take you to bed then, holding your body close as you reveled in the warmth that he provided you, a stark contrast to how cold your grief made you feel. 

There was fear hidden deep within Thomas’s haunting eyes on those nights, though you never asked what that fear was. You didn’t have to. It was communicated to you without words - in the way he touched you, in the way he kissed you, in the way his gaze bore into you as he whispered how much he loved you, in the way that he seemed to struggle to tear himself away from you in the mornings. He was afraid to lose you, to lose the girls, to lose himself. You were afraid, too.

The fear slowly started to slip from his eyes as the days went on, and you could only conclude that Thomas had a plan. He didn’t tell you what that plan was, nor did you ask. Just as Ada had said, you had faith in Thomas, and you trusted him to protect you, your girls, your entire family implicitly. You’d eventually learn of the plan, so you patiently waited and waited, ignoring the way that your own fear and grief and guilt nearly swallowed you whole as the day of John’s funeral approached. 

You learned about the plan that Thomas had concocted when the family finally came together to discuss the matter at hand, a bath with Thomas interrupted by the announcement of their arrival. You’d both quickly dressed and checked on the girls one final time before joining the others, trying to ignore the way that Polly stared at you with unconcealed irritation.

“Does Nora stand at the head of this family with you now, Thomas?” she had questioned venomously when you stayed standing at Thomas’s side rather than taking a seat at the table with the others.

“She has since the day I married her, Pol,” he retorted, his brow creased in annoyance. “Now if you’re done asking unnecessary questions, there’s things we all need to discuss.”

She made further quips throughout the discussion, and you had to wonder how much she’d had to drink so far that morning. Excusing her behavior as simply being drunk, you brushed off most of her words until you could ignore them no longer.

After she rambled on about the hand of death, Ada glancing up at you in exasperation and disbelief, Thomas continued with the conversation he had gathered the family for. “Michael and John were shot because we killed someone-”

“You mean because your wife killed someone,” Polly interrupted, leaning forward on the table and waving her cigarette about as your breath caught in your throat and your body stiffened. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you had some control over your wife, Thomas.”

Her words had set Thomas off, and the room was cast into silence after he slapped his palms against the surface of the table, more angry than you had seen him in months. “Enough! Not another word against Nora, Pol,” he warned. “This is a family matter, so we’ll handle it as a family. That means no more needling and insulting my wife. Understand?”

You placed a hand on his back, capturing his attention. As soon as his haunting gaze found your eyes, you shook your head. “She’s right, Thomas. We’re in this mess because of me.”

“At least she’s smart enough to see the truth of the matter,” Polly quipped, leaning back in her chair and taking a long drag and exhaling, her gaze landing on you through the haze of the smoke. 

Her smug expression spurred you on, and you took a step forward to address her further. “Yes, I do see the truth of the matter, but that doesn’t change that we’re in this mess, Pol. Vicente Changretta was going to die that night, no matter what. If it hadn’t been me to pull the trigger, it would have been Thomas or John or Arthur,” you repeated what Ada had said to you on Christmas morning, immensely grateful for her words even if you hadn’t been at the time. “Regardless of who pulled the damn trigger, we’d still be right where we are now. You’d still be drunk and bitter, John would still be dead, and Michael would still be in the hospital. The only difference is that I wouldn’t be drowning in my fucking guilt, so just keep your comments to yourself for one fucking minute and listen to what Thomas has to say.”

It didn’t go unnoticed that Polly’s eyes had widened in surprise, frustration and pride glimmering within them and battling for dominance. It also didn’t go unnoticed that Ada tried to hide a smile behind her hand, that Arthur looked mildly impressed, that the others were downright surprised by the manner that you had stood up for yourself.

(If any of them had bothered to actually speak with you beyond brief small talk in the last year, they may not have been so surprised).

Thomas cleared his throat, his hand settling on your lower back as you straightened and stepped back to stand at his side again. You stayed silent as he explained the matter in more detail, stayed silent as he told the rest of the family that Luca Changretta wanted the Shelby family dead, stayed silent as Arthur claimed the right to kill the man, stayed silent as Thomas revealed that he sent a message to another gypsy clan for help, stayed silent as Polly mocked the plan, stayed silent as the votes were cast. You stayed silent.

Your silence continued as you and Thomas prepared for the funeral following the meeting, though Thomas hadn’t allowed it to remain that way for long. 

“I thought you told me you knew you weren’t at fault for what happened to John,” he commented as he straightened his tie, his haunting gaze meeting yours in the reflection of the mirror. 

“I did,” you replied, sitting at the edge of the bed as you slid your feet into your shoes. “I lied. Is that so hard to believe?”

He sighed heavily, hanging his head momentarily before he turned and approached you, crouching down and staring up at you, a hand beneath your chin. “You can’t do this again, Nora. You can’t.”

“Do what, Thomas?”

He used a hand to gesture at you, his eyes darting across the features of your face. “This. Letting your guilt destroy you from the inside.” His hand shifted from your chin, trailing down your neck, across your chest, and over the new, slight swell of your stomach. “I need you to promise me that no matter what, you’ll take care of yourself. For me, for the girls, for our baby.”

“Thomas,” you breathed, your brows knit together in sorrow, the profound concern in his voice causing your chest to ache with remorse.

“Promise me, Nora,” he commanded.

You swallowed thickly before standing, taking his hand in yours and urging him to stand with you. You looked up into his haunting eyes and nodded. “I promise, Thomas,” you told him sincerely. You gave his hand a squeeze before reaching up and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I swear to you, I won’t let this hurt our family again.”

He stared at you for a long moment, trying to decipher if you had meant it. Whatever he found in your expression, in your eyes had satisfied him. He nodded once, curtly, and you watched as the muscle in his jaw jumped, tension settling back over his features once again. “Let’s go. We have a funeral to attend.”

The guilt slowly crept its way back into your chest, settling like a heavy rock atop your heart as you struggled to come to terms with the fact that John was really gone. Even as you stood with the others in the field, dressed in black from head to toe, it still didn’t feel real to you.

John was dead. Esme had taken the children and left without a second word. She hadn’t even stuck around for the funeral. 

It was a somber affair, the funeral. Gathered with the rest of the Shelby family - save for Michael, still recovering in the hospital from his own injuries he’d received in the attack - and some of the Peaky Blinders and Lee family, you stood around the vardo that held John’s body, curtains drawn and hiding the inside from prying eyes. 

You hadn’t been allowed to say goodbye. No one had. Only Thomas and Arthur had seen to John’s body at the morgue and made preparations for the funeral, and having the chance of a final goodbye withheld from you left a bitter taste in your mouth. It made you feel empty and broken, and the hurt only intensified in your chest as you stood between Ada and Finn, Ada gently squeezing your hand while Thomas spoke about the boys’ time in France, the way that they’d been spared from death together.

Unable to restrain herself for even one goddamn minute, in the middle of a funeral no less, Polly made a snarky quip about what Thomas had done with the spare time he’d been given, and had you been able to find your words, to rid yourself of the tightness in your throat and the tears blurring your vision, you would have absolutely lost it.

Thomas said nothing to her, simply casting his gaze towards his feet. It made your heart break even further to see him like that, and you were swift to step away from Ada, moving to the other side of Finn to press yourself against Thomas’s side when he joined the rest of the family, watching smoke rise from the vardo. 

Your heartbeat was thundering in your ears as you tried to choke back the sobs that threatened to tear through you at the sight of the vardo going up in flames, but that didn’t stop you from noticing the way that Thomas’s body had stiffened, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of your dress at your hip, or how he had pulled your tightly against him, as if he were trying to conceal your body between him and Finn.

He was expecting something, you just couldn’t for the life of you figure out what.

And then, you heard the gunshot and Finn was pulling you from Thomas’s side, covering you protectively as Thomas remained standing. You saw Thomas give a near imperceptible nod of gratitude to Finn before he helped you off the ground, ordering the others to remain calm while Polly made yet another scene, doing her best to chide Thomas as if he were a child. And in no surprise to you, Linda was quick to add her two cents, stating that she wanted no part of Thomas’s plan, that she was taking Billy and returning to their house in the country.

It drove you absolutely fucking mad, and you couldn’t stand it any more.

“Enough!” More pairs of eyes than you had the patience to count fell on you. You breathed deeply through your nose before turning to Polly. “For fuck’s sake, Pol. Get off your fucking high horse and take a minute to realize the situation we’re in. It’s a fucking vendetta, Pol. There is no such thing as bait when it comes to this family, only targets. It doesn’t matter if were at a funeral, in the pub, or taking a fucking piss. We are all targets, and nothing will change that until Luca Changretta is dead or we are. So are you going to continue to try to belittle my husband or will you let him do what he needs to in order to ensure that we’re not the ones that end up dead when this is all said and done?”

She didn’t answer. She merely scoffed before drinking directly from one of the many bottles that had been set on the table she was sat at, averting her gaze.

Knowing you’d likely not get a better response from her, you turned on Linda. “And you,” you started, ripping the key from Arthur’s hand before stalking over to her and taking her hand in yours. You forced the key into her hand. “You’re not going anywhere, Linda. You’ll stay in fucking Small Heath where the Peaky Blinders can protect you and your son. The Italians will not hesitate to take him from you and use him against Arthur.”

She tried to tear her hand away from your grip, but you only held her tighter, ensuring that she couldn’t go anywhere. “Georgie still has nightmares, you know. From when she was taken by the Odd Fellows. Thomas, too. Do you really want to put your son through that? Do you want to put your husband through that? Use your fucking head, Linda. For as clever as you claim to be, you certainly aren't doing a good job of convincing the others of that intelligence right now.”

“Esme was right, you know,” she finally spoke. “This family is cursed.  _ You  _ are cursed, Nora. You and Tommy both. All the bad things that happen to this family are because of  _ you, _ you ignorant, immoral-”

Your anger flared, and before you could stop yourself, your other hand had gripped her throat, putting a swift end to whatever insult she was spewing. “Finish that sentence, Linda,” you hissed. “I fucking dare you.” Before either of you could say any more, Thomas and Arthur had separated you and Linda, each man holding his wife away from the other. 

“Go home,” Thomas ordered, his voice a low whisper in your ears. “Go home, hold the girls, and calm down. We can’t afford to drive another wedge between us and the others.” He turned away from you, and called for Ada. “Take Nora home. This much stress isn’t good for the baby,” he explained, mostly for the benefit of the others. “She needs some rest before we meet at Charlie’s Yard.”

He turned to you one final time before Ada dragged you back to Watery Lane, taking your face in his hands and staring at you with haunting eyes filled with pride. “You’re something else, you know that?” A smile pulled at your lips as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Go with Ada. Check on the girls and get some rest before you come to Charlie’s. I need you to be at the top of your game when Aberama Gold sits at our table, love. Can you do that for me?”

You reach up on your toes, gently pressing your lips to his, ignoring the stares of the others. You pulled back slightly, your lips ghosting over his as you answered, “For you, anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick heads up, i may need to tweak my schedule. i'll do my best to stick to monday/thursday updates, but i am quite literally only a couple months from completing my graduate degree - this means i'm starting my comprehensive exam this month, which is basically a bunch of research and like a 30 page paper that touches on everything i've learned in the past two years...so in short, i'll be very, ~very~ busy with that for the next 4-5 weeks. i'll do my best though!


End file.
